King Snow
by Jiaory
Summary: The resurrected Jon Snow leads a Ranging of Night's Watch brothers and Free Folk north of the Wall to defeat the Night King. He returns alone, with the full power of winter behind him.
1. Snow from the North

**Lady Wolf**

She almost didn't recognize her brother at first. He was paler, his face somehow managed to become even more somber and grim. His build had more muscle, he was the image of a young Eddard Stark, no longer the slim youth from her last memory of him years ago.

But were those the only changes she still would've been able to place the man standing before her as Jon Snow. The reason she hesitated at first was the eyes. No longer the steel gray of countless Starks before him, now they were a cold, ice blue.

When he strode forward and swept her up into her arms, a brief shiver of fear ran down her spine. Fear at my own family, thought Sansa, ridiculous. But this blue-eyed stranger was not the same Jon she knew, another dark part of her whispered. Something has happened.

Her fears about Jon were allayed when he promised her his protection, in that same old solemn tone, and their shared laugh at old memories from Winterfell. Not everything had changed. However, mention of their ancestral home brought new fears about how they would retake it from the Boltons, if they even could. The force at Castle Black and group of wildings camping outside alike were devastated by some recent catastrophe, the details of which Jon refused to share with her. As it stood, they hadn't even half the men they would need to take Winterfell, even after they added the banners of the northern lords. Sansa almost laughed at Jon when he told her the 'Bolton numbers didn't matter anymore' with that serious countenance of his. The laughter died in her throat, replaced by the shivering fear, as Jon's eyes began to glow with unearthly blue light.

The fear grew when he lead her atop the Wall to show her what was gathered on the other side.

Then Jon demonstrated his newfound abilities.

"You have control of this power? You can… command them?" she asked.

"There is strain, and I am still exploring the limits of what I can do, but aye, I have control. Or I wouldn't have dared return south of the Wall." he replied. And then her fear froze into solid Stark determination to see justice done.

 **The Bastard of Bolton**

They came in with the dark, a screaming tide of horror that flowed over the walls of conquered Winterfell, blue eyes in the night. The Bolton men hacked them down by the dozen, and the hundreds that followed buried them in a tide of bodies. When their fallen comrades rose back up with burning eyes, most of the men broke and ran.

"Cowards! Craven! Fight back you filthy fucking maggots!" Ramsay screamed as he slashed the head off the creature attacking him with his sword, sinking the knife in his offhand into the back of a fleeing man-at-arms, who promptly fell dead at his feet. His sword flashed down to decapitate the man a few seconds later when he rose up to grab at him.

An animal part of him broke gibbering with fear at the sight of these rotten things, told him to run away with his men. He shut that part of him down with the full force of his fury. These dead men were slow, he danced around them and cut them to bits with mad glee. Ramsay Bolton didn't fear corpses. These enemies sucked the joy out of fighting- no screams of pain, no blood. It brought back the disappointment of the wolf-boy's death hours before. Little Rickon Stark had faced his death in silence, devoid of reaction. Just like with his cunt of a sister, it took the fun away.

When he finally spotted some men in black cloaks and crude furs fighting along with the wights, he almost wept with relief. Finally, flesh-and-blood men. He knew how to hurt living men, and knew how to bleed them good. He dashed towards the nearest one, a black brother busy cutting down a Bolton soldier. His knife flashed up to the neck, and Ramsay hungrily awaited the splash of hot lifeblood.

With impossible speed, a hand shot out of nowhere to grasp his wrist. Immovable strength prevented Ramsay's arm from even twitching. He noticed the hand that restricted him was an immaculate white. White like fresh snow- as was the arm it was connected to.

He turned to fully see the thing that grasped him. And Ramsay Bolton felt fear.

 **Dragon Queen**

Daenerys heard the rumors as soon as she landed on Dragonstone. She found them hard to believe, despite her own experience in bringing legends back to life. Dead men walking in the North. Wildlings, White Walkers, ice spiders, giants and mammoths come south of the Wall, and he who commanded them. The King of Winter. The King of Night. King Snow.

The servants in the castle whispered of his powers, that he could command the dead- wights, they called them. That the King of Winter could call down storms on his enemies, fought with a great sword of pure ice, and had at his side a white direwolf larger than a horse. Her own men spoke of him as if he where some kind of demon- or some kind of god.

"Just a man, Your Grace." Varys assured her, "Jon Snow, the bastard son of the late Eddard Stark. Last I had heard of him before now was that he had gone to the Wall to take the black."

"A son of the Usurper's most loyal dog." she replied.

"Harsh words, my Queen." Varys looked completely unruffled by the glare she shot him. "Eddard Stark was one of the most honorable men in the realm, and I had heard it said that the son was no less than his father in that regard."

"And what of the news about the dead men, these so called wights, dear Spider?" she asked.

"The songs my Little Birds sing to me of the North as been quite.. discordant of late. Recent rumors have been rather baffling. I will strive to bring the truth to you with haste, Your Grace." Varys then bowed and left.

The next morning, Varys presented her with his truth, the eunuch more shaken than Daenerys had ever seen him. The spymaster's little birds reported a contingent of Lannister soldiers marching up the Kingsroad days ago to establish a foothold in the North. As soon as they crossed into the Neck a horde of moving corpses tore them to shreds. The wights have been standing guard on the border of the North since, repelling anyone who came close. Already nearby villages of smallfolk have fled south in fear of these monsters from their bedtime stories come to life.

Daenerys gathered up her allies from the Reach and Dorne, along with the Greyjoy siblings and gave them their orders. Then she climbed atop Drogon and flew north. A flock of ravens kept pace with them, cawing at her until Drogon snapped his jaws at them and they dispersed in a cloud of black feathers.

 **The King of Winter**

Jon flexed his hands as another wave of information flooded into him. He sat in the great hall at Winterfell, but his mind was far to the south, where wights under his direct control spread along the border between the North and the other six kingdoms. Soon they would reach from the western coast to the east across the thinnest part of the Neck, right over the castle-bridge of the Twins.

The Twins that had been curiously empty of inhabitants. Bran had told him the reason for its current state would soon be made clear to him, with a slight quirk of humor on his usually expressionless face. His greenseer younger brother was a bittersweet presence. The sweet young boy of the past was gone, in his place a stranger. Bran had been greatly changed by his journey past the Wall.

As had I, thought Jon.

Despite the differences, it was good to have the Stark children back in their home. Although the thought as always brought along with it the worry about where Arya was, and then the bubbling, raw rage at the fates of Robb and Rickon.

Little Rickon. Butchered by Ramsay Snow before their forces could broach the Winterfell keep. All this power at my fingertips, and unable to save a little boy. The Gods are cruel. All Jon had left was vengeance against the cause of all the pain inflicted upon his family.

Lannister. The name burned red hot with hatred in his mind.

One of his servants took notice of Jon's emotion and floated a query across his consciousness. The White Walkers thought in simple terms, but they were capable of independent action and could command the wights in Jon's stead. The one who contacted him was just as succinct as any other.

 _Obliteration?_ Followed by an image of a Walker and an army of wights moving south.

 _No_. Jon commanded. His servant immediately sent a mental acquiescence and withdrew its presence from Jon's head.

He had to be careful of his fixation on revenge. There was no telling how much his wrath came from righteous reasons to see justice for his family, and how much came from the influence of the Night King's power and its sinister original purpose: the destruction of mankind.

When Jon had first claimed the power of Winter, months ago, he had briefly considered throwing himself off the Wall. But he quickly realized that without someone to hold their reins, the White Walkers were liable to simply march south with their great host as soon as winter came and the water around Eastwatch freezes into ice. Even so, after the acceptance of his new ability Jon found himself purposeless.

Until Sansa arrived at Castle Black. Seeking justice for the Starks and defending the North from the hostile southerners were as good a goal to lend his power toward as any other. Although, once his job was done and the North was secure, perhaps Jon should take all the wights and Walkers back to the Land of Always Winter. Go far, far north, himself and all the other monsters, and never return.

The sound of wood on stone broke Jon out of his musings, and he looked up from his seat in the great hall to see Sansa wheeling Bran in on his rolling chair.

"Bran. Sansa. What brings you." He felt smile stretch across his face for his younger siblings. It was good to see them both healthy. Sansa's fiery hair had returned to its normal sheen, and Bran was filling out more now that he wasn't on a diet of scavenged fruits and nuts.

Sansa returned his grin, and Jon felt a little warmth stir in his breast. He had noticed his sister's initial fear of him when they reunited, and it hurt him to see that. In the weeks since their return to Winterfell, Sansa had made efforts to reconnect with her siblings and Jon had tentatively returned them.

"My King." greeted Sansa, gracefully lowering herself into a courtly bow. Jon stood up and crossed over to lift her up.

"Please rise Lady Sansa, my loyal retainer." he laughed.

"You'll have to forgive me if I cannot do the same, Brother." Bran nodded towards his legs.

The two older siblings shared a chuckle, and Bran gave them one of his little half-smiles, rare as gold. His expression quickly turned serious. "Jon, I needed to come talk to you. Sansa needs to hear as well, her opinion will be valuable."

"Aye, tell us what the news is Bran." replied Jon, easing himself back into the seat he was occupying. "Is it more griping from the Lords of the North?"

"No. The lords are currently more than grateful for the help of House Stark, and your wights. Workers that do not tire, eat or need lodging are invaluable. Giants and mammoths, as well, make construction in preparation for winter much faster. The problem lies elsewhere."

"A threat from the south?" asked Sansa with a grimace on her face.

"Yes. Daenerys Targaryen is flying to the North."

Jon frowned. "Isn't this Mother of Dragons supposed to be waging war on the crown from Dragonstone?"

"Apparently the defeat of those Lannister soldiers in the Neck as brought her attention to us. As potential ally or enemy I am still uncertain, but it is safe to assume she is leaning towards the latter due to the nature of the wights." replied Bran. "Shes riding her largest dragon, and dragonfire is a devastating weapon against the undead and the White Walkers."

Sansa was deep in thought. She broke out of her reverie to address her brothers after Bran's mention of fire. "Do we have any method to damage a dragon? Or atleast ground them? I know of ballistae in storage in Winterfell, but they may no longer be functional after all these years."

"It may be possible to repair them. The timing however, will be troublesome. I've kept flocks of ravens and crows near the Targaryan queen and her dragon, but they fly much faster than birds and I struggle to keep track of their travel."

Jon stayed quiet, watching and listening to the younger Starks discuss and argue methods to counteract a Targaryan on dragonback, a force none had faced for hundreds of years.

But I am a force none have faced for thousands of years, thought Jon. He stood, suddenly.

"Start work on any ballista still intact, to be mounted on the walls of Winterfell in case we are forced back by the dragons. Bran, tell the giants to prepare to move south. Sansa, the same with the northern bannermen still residing in Winterfell."

"And you Jon? Where are you going now?"

As Jon strode out of the hall, the black fur-lined cloak Sansa had sown for him in the fashion of the one their father had worn fluttered behind, like the great dark wings of some beast of the Dawn Age. The direwolf sewn onto his leather armor seemed ready to leap off the fabric at any moment.

"To speak with the Others."


	2. In Fury and Flame

A/N: Thanks a ton for the support and reviews! The more comments the better, feedback helps a ton.

 **Gilded Lion**

He stalked through the crowd of jabbering noble petitioners that filled the vast space of the Red Keep's throne room. Any sop too slow to move caught a swift armored elbow to the side.

Dragons to the east. Undead creatures to the north. Monsters closing in on all sides. The world was going mad. _Just like your sister_ , a traitorous part of his mind whispered. He shut it up firmly.

It was a rare event indeed to see Queen Cersei holding court, as she hadn't allowed the peerage into the throne room since her coronation. The two of them had decided that she needed to bring the nobility firmly back into their camp, the first step of which was to restablish the crown's grand duty of listening to the complaints of it's richest subjects.

The timing was atrocious. Cersei had to hear the most recent news from the Neck, and the well-dressed vultures in the room could not know it- if they haven't heard already. The rumors had already spread well south of the capitol. The kingdoms were strife with dark whispers of the things come south of the Wall.

He reached the dais atop which rested the Iron Throne, and knelt. The surrounding noise died down as the Queen greeted him and bade him rise with all the same theatrics he had grown accustomed to with his lifetime in the royal court. He looked up at her face and she read the message in his eyes, leaning over to whisper into Qyburn's ear. The maester-turned-Hand signaled Ser Gregor Clegane, or Ser Robert Strong, whatever they were calling the beast these days, who began to herd the nobles out of the room.

He and his sweet sister had always been good at unspoken communication. First to trade little smiles and jokes at their father's table in Casterly Rock, or to sneak off and play in the gardens- though thier activities grew more insidious with age.

Two bodies, one heart. _Less and less true each day, eh Jamie?_

"What words do you bring that are so sensitive you needed me to clear the room?" His sister's voice snapped Jamie out of his reminiscing. He answered her. "Imperative news. The men we sent north to survey Moat Cailin and set up an encampment in the Neck. Do you still remember?"

"Two hundred men, I had one of our cousins lead them. They marched up from the city nearly a fortnite ago. What news of them." she replied.

"They're dead."

Cersei grimaced. "Who killed them? Those dirty little swamp-men come scuttling out of the muck? Or a force from Winterfell- does this bastard in the North want to engage in open rebellion?"

"Not who, sister, but what. A force of reanimated dead men that ripped them to bits." Jamie uttered the line with complete sincerity, but the Queen's response was laughter. Her ridicule spilled out of her mouth in peals of richly-pitched amusement, like so many ringing chimes.

Jamie felt his mood grow even darker.

Cersei's enjoyment stopped as suddenly as it had started, and she fixed him with a glare. "You waste my time with a jape? Your so-called 'imperative news' was this drivel about walking corpses? I've been hearing about these northern fairy tails for weeks!" her anger came just as sudden as her laughter had.

"No drivel Cersei!" Jamie forced out, "I instructed the Lannister commander to send me a raven once they arrived at the Twins, and sent a rider after them as soon as he didn't. My rider who found what was left of their camp, who saw what now occupies the Twins and the Neck. These rumors are true!" he was surprised to find himself shouting at the end. Cersei looked furious.

"Excuse me, master Jamie, but what you speak of… it's simply not possible." Qyburn cut in, sensing his Queen's mounting rage.

"How can you, of all people, disbelieve this. Have you not been dabbling in something similar down in the Black Cells?" Jamie retorted. He gestured towards the massive man in kingsguard armor standing at attention to their side.

"Ser Gregor and my other work in the castle dungeons are not dead men, commander. They are very much still living and breathing creatures, albeit greatly… altered, shall we say. I work in the realm of chemicals and flesh and their myriad interactions, and if what you say is true-"

"It is." Qyburn frowned slightly at Jamie's interruption.

"-if what you say is true, then it means that corpses whose hearts no longer beat and whose bodies are no longer functioning- not in any way ours do- are up and moving. Again, if this is true, then it is completely outside the realm of study that I work in. I simply cannot conceive how it could be done, and I am a very imaginative man."

Those last words sent a shiver of discomfort down Jamie's spine, despite the soft tone they were spoken in. One glance at the mangled purple skin and inky sclera revealed by the Mountain's helm reminded him just what the innocuous-looking slim old man was capable of.

Debating with Qyburn was accomplishing nothing. Jamie refocused his attentions on Cersei.

"Regardless of whether you believe in what the threat is, the threat is there. Those Lannister men are dead. Allow me to personally command a force up north and investigate. We can also finish setting up that encampment.." he was losing her- Jamie could see her interest waning. "My instincts, and my duty as Commander of your armies tell me we need to address this issue in the Neck." he pleaded.

"You want to abandon our plans in the Reach and go north to chase grumpkins and snarks in the swamps?" Cersei sneered. "You've inherited all the looks and none of the brains, brother."

"Cersei-" he had to try. She wasn't giving the news the weight it deserved.

"You will address me by my title! I am your Queen! I won't hear anymore of these stories Commander." she put extra venom in the last word. "I've been informed that the Targaryen whore has marshaled her forces in the Reach and Dorne, and they will strike at either the Westerlands or the Stormlands. Either way, Highgarden is wide open."

"The operation should take-" Cersei cut him off again.

"I sent Euron Greyjoy to handle the threats to us. He promised the deed done and more, while you sit here arguing with your liege." She worked her next words around her mouth like a pair of sweets. "Perhaps I should give more attention to his proposal of marriage."

Jamie grit his teeth felt his hand clench around the handle of his sword involuntarily. He jerked a swift nod. "I will see your will done, My Queen."

He turned and stalked out of the throne room.

 **Dragon Queen**

She would never grow tired of flight. Since that first eventful trip through the skies back in Meereen, each time she rode Drogon through the clouds it was an unforgettable experience. The land rolled underneath them, towns like little brown buttons on a green canvas and rivers like shining ribbons of blue silk. Even as high up as they were, Daenerys felt no cold. She wore her thick woolen riding coat, dyed a pure white. Missandei had spent a whole day weaving intricate patterns into the material, and had presented it to her as a gift when she prepared to travel north.

Drogon's scaly hide also gave of a veritable aura of heat. The dragon seemed to provide a bubble of warm air around them as defense against the chill.

They flew north-west for a while, skirting the Isle of Faces and Harrenhal, who's towers reached like spiny black fingers, so high they almost brushed the clouds, despite their melted and ruined state. The sight of what her predecessor Aegon the First had wreaked upon the castle was both awe-inspiring and humbling. Drogon was still far from large enough to generate the amount heat that must of poured from the maw of Balerion the Black Dread, enough to melt stone like wax. Her dragon, somehow sensing Daenerys' thoughts, gently shook his neck and snorted a cloud of smoke.

She laughed and leaned down slightly to rub at the soft leathery skin under one of the horns behind his great head. "One day, Drogon, you too will command such fire. Patience, my child."

She felt her mount rumble beneath her, and some near-intangible feeling thrummed through her chest. There were moments like these where she could almost swear she knew exactly what the black dragon was telling her, but the feeling escaped her. And yet, such moments have been more and more frequent.

As she followed the Kingsroad beneath her due north, the cold suddenly intensified. She felt it set in, bursting the bubble of draconic heat that had insulated her, and digging its icy claws through the layers of her coat.

Winter is Coming indeed, Daenerys mused. The words of House Stark, a warning instead of the more classical threats and boasts of the other Houses. And despite that, the words still rang ominous. Certainly not as intimidating as her own Fire and Blood, but there was something about the indomitable fact of the statement. It didn't matter how powerful the man or how hard the struggle, there was no defeating the elements.

She rode on, lost in thought as Drogon soared ever northward and the chill continually grew worse. Eventually the coastlines closed in enough that she could smell the sea, and she spotted the Twins coming up ahead of her. Daenerys' attention, however, was not on the castle but what ran through it from the east and continued onward to the west.

A solid line of black, from her birds-eye-view looking like so many little toy soldiers similar to those Viserys had owned as a child. But these were no toys.

Daenerys bade her mount to go closer, and Drogon responded by swooping towards the ground. She could make out the features of men, some clad in rags and furs, some in filthy Lannister armor, and some that were barely held together with bone.

It was true. Dead men in the North. The wights were real. A noise of shock escaped her. The line of creatures ran three deep, and to a one they stood stock still facing the south. She commanded Drogon rise up again into the sky with no small amount of trepidation, and flew east until they saw ocean.

Then they wheeled around and flew west until the waters of the Bite and the Narrow Sea came over the horizon. Her shock transformed into horror.

King Snow had done the impossible with sheer numbers. He established a living- or should she say nonliving- wall of men from one side of the continent to the other. Even if it was along the thinnest stretch of land in Westeros, the amount of bodies must number in the hundreds of thousands. No land-bound force would be able to enter the North without the knowledge of the King in the North, assuming they could even bypass the wights.

Daenerys flew back towards the Twins, and her worry grew like a vine. The dead men were supposed to be susceptible to fire, and nothing burned hotter than dragonfire. But it wasn't a question of what her dragons could do or could not do anymore. This King of Winter had enough of his creatures here standing border patrol to overrun her entire army thrice over.

This changes everything. If the North was hostile, and this massing of undead was for a soon-to-happen incursion south, then Daenerys might have to hold the southernmost kingdoms while the Army of the Dead simply swallowed everything north of King's Landing.

No, even that might not work. If the rumors were true- and nothing was disproving them yet- than King Snow could raise more soldiers for his endless army from the dead bodies of the slain. Daenerys felt her heart clench at the sudden thought. Every man, woman, and child turned into these… these things. An entire Realm's worth of bodies forged into a machine of war, and every fallen ally rising up again to join the enemy, just like those wights staring out of Lannister helms with blue eyes.

She needed to drastically shift her strategy. If she spent too much strength on the Lion, her back could be savaged by the Wolf, and her people wouldn't stand a chance. It was wholly possible that only the might of the Six Kingdoms could throw back this northern scourge.

But Cersei would never accept truce, Tyrion had told her as much. The Mad Queen would rather burn the city to the ground that hand it over to her enemies, and she'd already partially done it. Surely the crown knew of the gathering threat in the Neck, but Daenerys hadn't seen any answer to it on her flight here. Was Cersei trying to ally with the King in the North? Was it even possible to ally with someone who commanded dead men?

 _Oh Gods, were there even any living souls left north of the Twins?_

Daenerys had to do something. She was here, now, and every less wight was one less her men may one day face on the field of battle. She gripped Drogon's back with steely determination and together they banked in the sky and dived downwards.

"Dracarys!"

Dragonfire lanced out from between Drogon's roaring jaws, white hot flame turning into a raging inferno of orange and red along the conveniently straight line of bodies drawn for her and her dragon. Hundreds of the corpses turned to ash in an instant, and hundreds more burst into fire like dry kindling.

Oh yes, they burned quite well.

Daenerys and Drogon finished their attack run and rose up into the sky, turning once again to begin another dive downwards. The wights' heads were all cocked upwards at her now, blue eyes staring at the winged figure above them.

"Dra-" Before she could finish, Drogon suddenly swerved midair with a massive gust of his wings, the latter half of Daenerys' command cut off into a yell of surprise. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something blue flash past them, and then a sudden wave of cold along her right side, like she had been dipped into the freezing waters around Dragonstone.

She looked down, and out of the thick woodlands near the castle-bridge, figures moved forwards into the flat grasslands, a hundred feet or so out from the line of wights. Three humanoids of Giant proportions, a group of archers in northern livery, and flanked by two creatures of an unsettling pale shade, a man clad in black.

Drogon roared a challenge to those below, and the Giants roared right back. The little platoon of archers loosed a volley at her, but the mighty dragon's wings beat back the arrows with great burst of wind. Daenerys focused on the figure in the black cloak, and she felt it with certainty.

It was him. King of Winter, King Snow. He was here in the flesh.

One of the white creatures next to him raised it's arm and out of thin air, coalesced a massive blue-hued spear of pure ice. It was the same projectile that had so narrowly missed them just moments ago, thanks to Drogon's evasive acrobatics.

"Dive!" She screamed. Drogon responded, and a whoosh of displaced air was heard overhead, followed by the same deep numbing chill from before, this time down her back instead of her side. Daenerys did not want to find out what would happen if one of those spears hit.

The archers loosed another ineffectual volley, and the Giants were hurling nothing at them but noise. She saw King Snow walk out from between his creatures and stand in front of his little force. He faced her and raised his arms before him.

He was taunting her. Daenerys felt her blood stir as her anger swelled. She could end him right now. She could end the threat from the North, and defend her people.

"Dracarys!"

Once again, Dragonfire laced forwards and bathed the world before her eyes in flame. She had come in at an angle where she could not see anything except the furnace fires that was Drogon's breath, incinerating all before her into ash. She exulted in the same power as the dragonlords of Old Valyria, gliding forth across the ground on her mighty mount.

Suddenly, a sound she had never head before, a thunderous crunch followed by a great cracking noise. A jolt, and Daenerys realized she was still flying- except now not on the back of a dragon.

The crash into the ground and forced all her breath to leave her body on impact, black spots suddenly swimming in hazy vision. Her ears rang. She hacked and coughed and managed to wrench her head up to see-

She was inside a great blue dome. The same freezing blue ice from the spears, on a massive scale all around her. There was a jagged, melting hole on one side, and cracks spread out in all directions from it. She looked around, and there were no smoking remains of the northerners.

Daenerys' ears recovered enough to hear the roaring of her dragon, and despite the pain wracking her body she pulled herself up towards the sound. Drogon was grounded, thrashing around in the dirt as the three massive Giants restricted him with equally enormous ropes of unknown make, binding him tighter and tighter onto the surface.

Her body seemed to move through molasses, impossibly slow as the bowmen from before moved towards her. Daenerys watched as man who she presumed was their leader shouted orders at them in a thick Fleabottom accent, demanding that they take her away and slap her in manacles.

As the men-at-arms dragged her up she turned to see the bearded old leader stride towards the figure keeled over in the grass, and noticed it was him, the man in the black cloak, the King.

And suddenly she realized what had happened, what he had just done, he'd thrown up the massive barrier of ice and stopped her dragonfire dead in its tracks, blinded both Drogon and his fool rider long enough that they slammed into it and then onto the ground.

Daenerys saw the bearded commander reach his collapsed King, face lined with concern, and then her head dropped as exhaustion took over and lulled her into the dark embrace of unconsciousness.


	3. Over Water, Under Sky

A/N: Your follows, favorites, and positive reviews are fuel for my motivation.

 **Onion Knight**

Davos was rightly pissed. His king was a brave man, an honorable man, aye. And recently, a very powerful man, to be sure. But even more recently, Davos had been given a reminder that his king was in many ways still a lad, and thought himself some kind of hero.

Bloody idiot. They'd captured the Targaryen queen and her big bellowing beast all right, but not with their nice, carefully laid out plan. The plan had gone to shite the second the big beastie started dancing through the sky like some winged' braavosi duelist.

Then Jon ran out there flapping his arms like he was gonna fly up into the sky too. Davos thought he was gonna die right there seeing the big dragon fly right towards them. It was sight to behold, to be sure. He supposed it wouldn't be the worst way to die, unless he wasn't lucky enough be get ashed in an instant. Go the same way his son did, bit of poetry in that.

Then King Jon Snow threw up that great dome of his, and Davos watched in awe as the fire splashed harmlessly against it, all the hues of white and orange and red and blue. Beautiful. He didn't even feel warm. Though he muttered to himself now that his old bones could've done with some heat. Blasted cold in the North, even more so now that his King was running around flinging magic ice all about. Speaking of which... he glanced to his side to make sure the two White Walkers were well away from their group of men.

The entire excursion that had left Winterfell to fight a dragon was recovering from their surprising victory in the dilapidated great hall of the Twins. The castle was still empty and until the King decided who would occupy it, it was manned by the wights. Davos had heard the surviving Freys- mostly women and babes, had already fled south-west into the Riverlands and Lannister-held holdfasts. He reminded himself to council the King to be merciful when the time came to deal with the remaining Freys. It was always a terrible thing to slaughter the innocent because of who their fathers and brothers were.

It was a concern for a later time, they had more current matters to deal with. Davos decided he very much disliked his prisoners. He didn't trust this Targaryen queen, not at all. She had woken soon after they gathered all the men into the castle, and her eyes had been constantly scanning everything in sight since, lingering on the Walkers. Little slip of a beauty that she was, he didn't like how she sat there staring imperiously at the rest of them, despite her hands having been bound in steel shackles.

When she had woken, she hadn't allowed them to bandage her wounds until Davos confirmed that her dragon was safe and mostly unharmed, only kept captive. Since then, this Queen Daenerys had kept quiet, and Davos was perfectly content to let that trend continue. It was the King who would speak to her, after all. As for his other prisoner, it was the blasted' bloody dragon.

The King will deal with it, when he wakes. Whenever that is.

Davos saw Jon kneel down right after the dragon broke through his frozen barrier, and saw him fall over into the grass as well. Worry had gripped him instantly. Two dead kings in as many years was a very bad record, especially considering how much he believed in both men he had served. The worry lessened when he saw that Jon still breathed, and after one of his archers who had some medical training claimed that the King was only suffering a bout of severe exhaustion. They put him up in one of the Lord's rooms that still had a halfway decent looking bed, with one of the men watching him at all times while the rest of them twiddled their thumbs in the hall guarding a single tiny girl.

 _She rides a flying fire-breathing beast four times the size of your boat._ He reminded himself.

He would wait. And hope the King would wake soon, so he can sort out this mess and they can all head back to Winterfell for a hot meal. And some ale.

 **Winged Wolf**

Bran's eyes snapped open. He removed his palm from the smooth white bark of the weirwood, and felt himself slowly settling back into himself. Returning all of his power back into the body of Brandon Stark, the thin crippled boy in the Godswood of Winterfell felt much like trying to pour ta great deal of water into too small a cup.

He didn't yet fully understand how the weirwood anchored him so much better when he flew for a long period of time, but he was grateful for it's effect. The Three-Eyed Raven before him was practically half-tree himself. Bran would've liked to learn more from Leaf and the other Children, but after the death of the old greenseer in the cave she bade him return south and carry out his new duty while the archaic little Children of the Forest melted back into the woodlands of the True North.

Someday, when the world had some modicum of calm again, he would ask Jon to take him north and try to reestablish connection with any surviving Children.

A thought reserved for the future. For now, war was still tearing Westeros apart, two Queens vying for control of a nation. Jon defeated and subverted the power of the Night King in a single brilliant stroke, but there was no defeating the approach of winter. It would be the longest and coldest one in a thousand years. And his sister desired for them to join the southern conflict to avenge their murdered family.

Bran cautioned her against rash actions, the North was dangerously splintered as it was. The Red Wedding shattered their united army and with the only a bastard and a cripple as the remaining Stark sons, their hold over the other lords was tenuous. Only staunch northern loyalty, the kind that had bound First Men together since the Dawn Age, and Jon's immense power bade the Northern Lords bend the knee and raise him as a King in the North.

But fear of their liege's power was a double-sided blade- it kept the kingdom in line in the short-term, but no true northmen would suffer for long under one they saw as a despot. The people were wary of their ancient enemies come over the Wall to help with labor and war. The wights simply unsettled any living creatures that encountered them. Jon had been wise to keep the Others far from the public eye.

And yet the truth was they all knew they needed the Army of the Dead to maintain order in the weakened North, to be the platform on which they recovered from the War of Five Kings, and to bolster them through the harshness of this coming winter.

If their armies surged south hell-bent on revenge, the North would lose its much needed crutch and the consequences could be dire. Bran wheeled himself back towards the keep. He needed to talk to Sansa, communicate with her his worries about the realm and about Jon.

And he could sense that their last sibling had finally come home.

 **King of Winter**

 _He leaped into the fray, Longclaw a whirling arc of deadly steel. He cut through the crowds of screaming wights with increased fervor, and they fell before him like so much chaff before the scythe._ _Ghost was at his back, tearing open the reanimated corpses and tossing them away._ _These were not the_ true _enemy, he reminded himself._ _I_ _must take down their masters._

 _"Into the breach! Go! Charge now!" He turned and bellowed out, voice hoarse from the fighting and screaming he'd been doing all day now._

 _The dead men had been throwing themselves at Eastwatch for three days now, scaling the Wall constantly with intermittent assaults from the south in the direction of the Bay of Seals. What did it matter how many wights washed away into the ocean. There would always be more._

 _He_ _had known what they had to do on the first day, and it took two to convince the men it was their only hope._

 _"Are you fucking mad,_ _crow_ _." Tormund had growled at him._

 _"What is our other option? Sit here and starve and be slowly ground away? The dead do not stop. They will keep coming with more and more while each day there will be less of us."_

 _"We can flee." a voice piped up._ _He_ _didn't even bother trying to find the_ _fool_ _._

 _"Aye, we can flee. Where? It doesn't matter where we go- the Army of the Dead will follow. We can face them here and now or we can face them after they've swallowed all our homes and increase ten times in numbers." His voice rang out with conviction, and he saw grim nods all around him._

 _And now they were here, doing the one thing he knew the Night King would never expect from cowardly Men, taking the fight to them and attempting to push them back from the Wall to buy more time._

 _The men fought fiercely, opening a gap in the seething wall of flesh before them, and through it he spotted the tell-tale shade of white and nearly inhumanly thin figure. He snarled and charged forth, the point of Longclaw leveled at the_ _Other_ _, Ghost joining him, the great direwolf leaping towards their enemy-_

Jon roared out a warcry and opened his eyes to see.. a frightened man in northern armor emblazoned with a Mormont emblem.

"Y-your Grace, I'll go fetch Ser Davos right-away, he told us to inform him soon as ye woke." the man scurried out of the room with great haste, closing the door behind him.

Jon sat up in the bed he had been lying down in, and felt the adrenaline leave his system to be replaced by the great crash of fatigue. He held a hand up to his head, and winced at the throbbing pain he felt there. A dream. A memory from the past. He stretched out mental feelers, reaffirmed that the swirling, freezing font of his power was still intact-

A spike of pain. Jon groaned and curled back into himself on the bed. It felt like an ice pick had been dug into his skull.

 _Too much power._ _Channeled more force than necessary. Great exertion has weakened you._

The cold, whispered voices clamored for space in Jon's head. He banished the presences with a no small amount of effort. The Others were growing harder to control. Was it because Jon was so tired? Or some other hidden reason? Either way, it was immensely worrying.

Davos suddenly burst into the room. "Your Grace, how are you feeling? I was told that you had only exhausted yourself, but do you feel well?"

Jon was suddenly reminded of a mother hen, or Old Nan back when they called Arya 'Underfoot' for good reason. Unbidden, a laugh bubbled out from between his lips, and he felt the pain recede into the back of his mind, more easily ignored. The merriment only served to put a glower on his adviser's face.

"Ser Davos, no need for such worry. I'm not a yearling boy, I know the consequences of my actions." said Jon, in an attempt to placate the older man.

"Aye, I'll agree you know yourself, but do try to keep in mind the cost to others as well. It would be disastrous for a great many people should you ever fall, Your Grace." Davos growled in his thick slums accent.

Then he sighed, and Jon sensed the subject dropped. "The prisoner is awake. She roused not two hours ago, and got through this whole messy affair with just a couple bruises, and a nasty scrape. Nothing broken. Quite lucky, I would say."

"Quite lucky indeed. And the dragon?"

"Hrmph. Less trouble than I'd thought, more than I'd hoped for. Somehow, those Giants are still holding it down outside the castle. I've no idea what material that massive woven rope they're using is made of, but whatever it is must be blessed by the Seven to restrain such a beast." Davos replied, with no small amount of ruefulness.

"You've done well, Davos. Is there a receiving room connected to these chambers?" asked Jon.

"Aye, Your Grace, an audience chamber right outside."

"Good, I will talk to Queen Daenerys there." Jon levered himself out of the bed, but when he put his weight back on his legs, his knees gave way. He warded Davos off with one arm while propping himself back up with his other.

Slowly, he walked over to the humble receiving room, sitting himself down in the large oaken Lord's chair. He let out an audible sound of relief, and then stiffened his back and hardened his features.

I cannot let any weakness show, thought Jon. This would be his first meeting with another monarch, and this Targaryen queen had a fearsome reputation besides.

"Send her in."

 **Dragon Queen**

He was smaller than she had expected.

Daenerys wasn't too sure what to predict of the King of Winter, commander of monsters. So she had braced herself for any kind of horrific visage. Daenerys knew he had the form of a man but perhaps with the skin and features beastly and twisted, that of a monster so terrible that even dead men bowed before it.

Instead, when she entered the small chamber she had been greeted by the sight of a pale and slight young man. She took note of his black curls and slim build, and let out a breath of anticipation she hadn't known she'd been holding. This Jon Snow was still a man, and she knew how to deal with men. Then, her eyes settled on the bright blue orbs of his own, and Daenerys rescinded her earlier relief. Perhaps this one was not wholly of the world of man after all.

A frown split the impassive face of the one seated before her.

"Why is she shackled?" He spoke with the same thick northern brogue his men did.

Ser Davos stepped forwards to answer. "Your Grace, the men and I felt it best if we restrain her."

"Davos, remove her manacles." he gestured towards her bound wrists. Daenerys took note of the weariness in his voice, and unsteady movement of his arm. Ser Davos hesitated but a moment before taking a small steel key from his belt and deftly unlocking her manacles. They feel free from her wrists and clattered onto the stone floor. "Leave us to speak." finished the King.

"Jon, it would not be safe!" Davos exclaimed.

"We have placed Queen Daenerys into forced negotiations, bereft of her advisers. My honor demands I do the same. Besides, there shall be no weapons in this room, once you leave to tend to the men." The King met the old man with an even gaze, before glancing point-fully at the dagger strapped to Davos' belt. He acquiesced with a short bow.

Once Ser Davos had exited, King Snow refocused his eerie blue eyes onto her. Daenerys inadvertently shivered. "Please, take a seat your… highness." She took the proffered seat across from him, and cocked her head.

"I find it strange that I have both underestimated and overestimated you." she spoke, gathering herself briefly before facing right at him, purple eyes unflinchingly clashing with blue.

I am Queen, I will not be cowed, thought Daenerys.

"Do tell, why do you say such things?" there was only a slight twinge of emotion in his words, the barest shift of expression on his long face.

"I was a fool to think I could bring you down, even whilst on dragonback. My Hand, Tyrion, oft tells me that I am overconfident in the power of my children; you have shown me the truth of his words." this time, she caught his reaction- a brief glimmer of surprise.

"Tyrion, as in Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf? He serves as your Hand?"

"And as a trusted adviser, yes. Are you familiar with him?"

"We've met, many years ago. Even traveled together, briefly." Jon Snow's azure eyes lost some of their sharpness in his reminiscence. After a pregnant pause, they snapped back to her. "A tale for another time, as you were not done speaking of your 'overestimation' of me."

"Quite. Despite your great power, which I do not fully understand, and your command of your men, I can see you are still very young and new to your position, unsure in the use of authority." she said.

"And you are so wise beyond your years or so talented a ruler? Are we not of similar age, after all?" he shot back, heated. It would seem this frozen Winter King had at least a little fire in him.

"I have been Khaleesi of the greatest Khalasar since three-and-ten, and after then my lands and titles have only grown. I can assure you that my aptitude to lead has been well-tested." she had drawn herself up speak, poured all her conviction, all her belief in _Daenerys Targaryen_ into her words, and she saw that despite his position as her captor Jon Snow gave a nod of assent to her statement.

"I brought you here to talk, not to trade boasts and veiled insults." he said, voice level with calm.

"I had assumed as much, seeing as you haven't executed me or my dragon. Very well, lets talk." either her voice or her face betrayed some sign of continued churlishness, because his reply was an apologetic sigh.

"I do not fault you for attacking the wights. In fact, I sympathize with you. A short while ago, I would've joined you to destroy them, they are monsters. I also ask your forgiveness for having to capture you in such a manner, but I could not have you harming my men."

"Your men." she drew out the second word, the question unspoken.

"My people, and my servants." he replied.

"Your servants." Daenerys repeated. "Is that what you call those creatures?" She'd not yet forgotten those frozen missiles they had hurled at Drogon. She doubted she'd ever forget the sight of those strange, inhuman forms standing silently below them in the great hall. Those frozen blue eyes.

The same eyes that stared at her now.

"Yes, the Others and the wights alike follow my command. You must believe that I am on the side of the living, that I would not send them to massacre the innocent. That I wrested control of them from a being that would."

Daenerys suddenly stood up, glaring down at the man seated before her. "You ask me to place such trust in you, a stranger. And yet, how did you know I was coming north?" No-one had known until the day she departed on Drogon, and nothing was faster than a dragon.

"My brother Bran, he is a greenseer. He sees… visions of the past and the present." King Jon explained when he saw her look of puzzlement. "Bran warned me of your arrival, and told me this meeting was necessary. We hope to organize an official summit between our respective councils, discuss peace and make our motivations be known." A pause. He seemed hesitant to say his next words.

"He also told me that if I didn't stop you, youd've burned all my wights to ash."

"Your brother is correct. I had intended to." She may still do, those creatures represented a grave threat.

"I cannot allow you to do that. I still have great need of my forces." said the King.

"To defend the innocent?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, and to guard the North and punish the enemy in the south." he spoke these words with the force of winter, the full weight of a sovereign behind them.

Daenerys suddenly smiled as the realization hit her. The lack of troops and defenses along the Kingsroad here. 'The enemy in the south'. Cersei. And the Mad Queen was unaware of the looming threat in the North.

She resumed her seat facing King Jon Snow.

"Perhaps we do have much to talk about."

A/N: I know this chapter was pretty slow, but I promise more action soon! (And more White Walkers). Thanks for reading!


	4. Of Cold Winds

A/N: Enjoy the chapter!

 **King of Winter**

Jon stood in the fresh layer of morning snow and watched Queen Daenerys Targaryen soar away on her great black dragon. Drogon, he recalled her saying, named after the Queen's deceased husband.

The Mother of Dragons had most definitely not been a disappointment. Bran's parting advice when he had been leaving Winterfell was most instrumental in dealing with her. Without his brother's forwarnings defeating the Targaryen queen would not have gone as smoothly as it had. The twinge of pain that ran through his limbs quickly reminded him that it could have gone better. The woman herself was a marvel, he'd rarely met a member of the fairer sex with such sheer force of personality. Ygritte and Val, perhaps, but they barely counted. Free Folk women were a breed apart.

Indeed, the rumors did not lie about Queen Daenerys. She had all the fire she claimed, and was a great Valyrian beauty to boot. Jon shook off the distracting thoughts.

He thought back to their parting words.

 _"What will you tell your councilors when you return to Dragonstone?" he asked,_ _keeping pace with the diminutive queen as he escorted outside the castle to her dragon._

 _"The truth. They shall know all that has happened here, my graceless capture included. My duty as their ruler_ _overrules whatever Queenly pride is worth." she replied, a sarcastic twist set in her lips. "Besides, they must know all_ _that_ _I know if they are to offer me accurate council after all."_

 _"Aye, there is great wisdom in your humility, Daenerys Targaryen."_

 _She stopped_ _walking and turned to look at him, her face unreadable._

 _"I still cannot tell if you're poking fun at me, Jon Snow, or if you are simply the most forthright man I have ever met."_

 _"I meant no disrespect-" he rushed to correct his mistake._

 _The Queen laughed him off. "A jape. Although I stand by the words, you are_ _singularly unequivocal." She grew more serious. "_ _I will relay to my advisers what we spoke of._ _And of what you are capable of- I will not make the mistake of underestimating you a second time, King Snow."_

 _Her massive black-scaled mount approached them, lowering itself before it's rider and allowing her to climb up onto a wing. Jon swore the great beast glared at him, though it made no aggressive motions._

 _Daenerys Targaryen finally clambered up to where she sat astride the dragon, and grinned down at him from her perch. Jon was suddenly struck by how young she was, how young they both were, to_ _command_ _powers out of storybooks and_ _to be_ _planning out the fates of a Realm._

 _"_ _Farewell and good fortune_ _, King Jon Snow, and if all goes well perhaps we_ _shall speak again soon."_

Indeed. If all went well. Jon turned and strode towards the castle, he had a more immediate issue to deal with. He stood stock still, eyes closed, and focused.

 _Come._

They appeared at his bidding, both pale figures striding out of the gates and the castle proper to approach him in the snow. They were inhuman in their grace, eerie in the way the seemed to glide over the snowfall, and leave no prints. The Others stopped before him, unmoving. As always, the winter cold intensified with their presence, though he felt no discomfort. The effect of cold had been greatly lessened since his change.

Jon took a moment to study the creatures. They were equally tall, pale and gaunt. They both wore the strange, slim, shifting armor crafted from crystalline ice- of the same make as their weapons. The Others were all nearly identical to each other, though he could pick our minor differences between the two before him. Small features in the face, differences in the length of their white hair.

Were these ones made from sons of Craster? Or could they be of an older time, babes taken in winters past?

Jon did not ask. He didn't want to know.

"The pain I felt after waking. The weakness I am feeling now. You know the cause?"

The White Walkers turned to face him, the movement synchronized, blue eyes glowing.

 _Summoned too much ice._

The cold voice touched upon his mind.

Jon felt the one to his right answer him, the instinctual understanding of which Other had 'spoken' stemming from a source beyond him. The one standing to his left offered its input next.

 _You_ _needed only to shield your singular body. The expenditure of power to cover a larger area was unnecessary._

Jon grit his teeth. His fingers itched for the handle of Longclaw. The lack of the sword's weight at his side had been unsettling these past months. "I had to defend my men. They'd have burnt to death in the dragonfire without my ice to cover them. The two of you would've burnt to death had I only shielded myself."

 _The bodies of Men and Giants can be reanimated. The loss of combat power is minimal._

They began to reply in tandem. Jon was getting nowhere with this. He needed the answer to his question.

"You claim I overdrew myself, this is false. I can feel the power of Winter within me, I know what it is capable of. The creation of that dome should've been a drop in the bucket. Tell me the reason it drained me so."

 _The source of the power is capable. You are not. You channel ice inefficiently. It is not the same as commanding the reanimated ones._

"And in what way am I… inefficient?" Jon held out his hand, and called on the font of freezing energy at his command. Ice formed over his outstretched glove, the cold blue ice snapping into existence, formed out of thin air.

 _You still cling to warmth. You_ _communicate as Men do_ _. Your body has not embraced cold. Because you do not comprehend the nature of eternity._

One of them stepped forwards, holding its arm outstretched- mirroring Jon. It too, brought ice into existence within its palm. But the ice was very different from Jon's own. The same cold blue, yes, but shifting, changing in shape and hue, unlike the static crystals of his own. Alike to their armaments, the Other's ice was almost clear, and glowed a faint blue.

 _Eternity. Cold. Ice._

The Other summoned more freezing power into the shifting ice, and in a flash of cold it was holding a blade of crystalline ice, opaque and pale, glowing with power. It offered it to Jon to examine for a moment, and then dispelled it back into nothingness.

Jon grimaced. "I have no wish to become more like your kind. I will speak as man because while I still draw breath I am a man, on the side of the living. If the price of my humanity is the power of the Night King, then I will make do with just the Night King's army."

He moved to walk past the Others, but they shifted to face him again.

 _It is true you cannot yet match the ability of the First One._

"I killed him just fine despite that." Jon smiled grimly at the memory. The Others remained unperturbed.

 _With your current state you can still manage the crafting of true ice. A weapon of small scale._

This conversation was quickly putting Jon in a bad mood. Small scale his arse. Though, it would soon be necessary to wield a blade again- He felt the loss of Longclaw dearly, and no other sword seemed… right after the use of Valyrian steel. He needed to master this power, to protect his allies and strike at his enemies. Jon closed his eyes and focused deep, focused on the feeling of holding his sword, the comforting weight of the weapon in his hand.

Cold. He visualized the constantly changing ice in the palm of the Other. Cold. He thought of swinging his blade on the battlefield, the rush of combat. Cold. And then… a weight in his hand.

Jon's eyes snapped open and focused on what he had brought to reality, closed in his fist. The smooth handle of pure ice, extending up into a crystalline guard in the same shape as the one on Longclaw. The blade itself was much longer than the bastard sword he had once wielded, approaching the size of a greatsword, though the weight was the exact same as he remembered. The entire weapon was a single piece of that shifting, cold material the Other had called-

 _True ice._

Had Jon been delirious, he could've claimed that there was a hint of awe in the cold voice that whispered in his mind. "So the rumors of me wielding a great sword of pure ice are now true." he murmured.

He clenched both gloved hands around the hilt of his newly manifested sword of ice and looked at the Others staring at him. Suddenly, Jon no longer felt the exhaustion that had been plaguing him since his waking from unconsciousness. He bared his teeth in a direwolf's grin.

"Ready yourselves." said Jon. Then he launched himself at them.

The Others barely reacted in time, leaping back as one and quickly bringing forth their own blades of crystalline true ice. Jon was in their range in a heartbeat, a whirling dervish of freezing blade and cold fury. He struck out against one of the Walkers, forcing it back with a series of quick blows rained down from above. The assaulted creature barely held him off with it's own icy weapon. Their frozen swords clashed with a peculiar ringing noise.

Jon suddenly twisted around- some sixth sense born of a short lifetime in battles warning him- just in time to deflect a swing from second Other, letting the strike slide off the edge of his cold blade- like so much rainwater from a waxed cloak. He moved forward into the guard of his attacker, and the Other beat a hasty retreat, but not before Jon lashed out with the long blade of his sword to nick it's delicate breastplate, with the tell-tale ring of true ice on true ice.

His two adversaries regrouped, circling around him to meet up and face him from a single side. Jon focused on their presences in his mind, taking his left hand off his weapon to gesture them forth.

 _Come._

They charged as one.

The Others quickly stole back the momentum in the fight as the worked in tandem, icy implements swung with terrible grace. They moved inhumanly quick, leaning and ducking away from Jon's blows with elegant swiftness, striking back with lighting speed. Jon found himself beset on both sides, his frozen sword ringing counterpoint to their impacts as he fended off the duo of White Walkers.

Jon realized with a shock that despite their swiftness, despite their eldritch strength, he was keeping pace with the Others. They were unable to overwhelm him. Wielding his sword of ice had not just dispelled his weakness, it had infused him with the speed and might of the winter winds. Jon felt alike to a storm as a poured on the assault, loosing his counter-attack in the form of low strikes at the lightly armored legs of his opponents, then quickly switching targets to their unarmored heads, all delivered with dizzying quickness. A laugh ripped free from his throat.

Jon once again forced them back, advancing on them with his newly discovered vigor. He battled with the Others savagely, trying to pry an opening from them. When the moment arrived- one of the Others recovering from a dodge a mite too slow, the other leaning away at just the right angle- Jon leapt forward with all the ferocity of his House symbol, swinging his great sword around in a mighty blow, aiming to split both Walkers at the waist. The Others, in a feat of inhuman reaction, managed to bring their swords into position to intercept the swing.

Their frozen blades meet with a clear note that seemed to stretch out into eternity.

Then, all three swords shatter with an explosion of cold energy, launching the combatants back, clearing the snow in a radius around them.

Jon recovered his breath, suddenly feeling the tiredness catch up to him again, although no longer at the level it had been before he crafted the sword. He turned his right hand around, palm facing him, and called out to the power of ice. This time, it came almost eagerly, swirling fragments of ice on the ground combining with freshly generating cold, coalescing into the long and wickedly sharp sword.

Blizzard.

The name jumped to the forefront of his mind. It was fitting, fighting with it turned him into a force of nature. Jon once again felt the cold strength of the weapon flooding through his body.

He turned his attention to the Others, who were waiting patiently on the other side of newly created clearing in the field. He nodded at them, and they re-summoned their own swords of crystal ice.

"Again."

 **Lady Wolf**

She paced in the solar of Winterfell keep, trying to figure out what in the name of the Seven and the Old Gods her brothers had gotten their family- and by extension the North, into. The little office was once the private workspace of her father, and she found that it was a good place to retreat from the rigors of ruling Winterfell to think. Probably why Ned Stark had treasured the place so much.

Sansa had been skeptical when Jon and Bran had first come to her to talk about their youngest brother's ability to peer into the past and see the goings on of present events, but after the revelation of Jon's powers she was ready to believe anything. So she had trusted that Bran spoke the truth when he reported on the happenings of her older brother meeting with the Targaryen queen at the Twins. He also brought words from Jon asking her advice on how to proceed.

Bran's greensight was devastating weapon. He was an undetectable spy, and could relay information over vast distances instantaneously. Sansa had him working on warging into specific ravens carrying Lannister messages so that they could intercept vital intelligence and break enemy communication lines.

Despite all their newfound power, the Starks still had a tenuous grip at best on the North. And Westeros as a whole was destabilizing. The Mad Queen Cersei in the crownlands, the Kingslayer in the Westerlands, and Baelish, that parasite, holed up in the Vale. They were ostensibly the largest power bloc, but she knew better to than to think Baelish served anyone but himself. The Riverlands were subdued under Lannister rule, the Stormlands embroiled in conflict with the Golden Company, who fought under the banner of a supposed Aegon Targaryen IV, son of Rhaegar. Theon and his sister Asha warred with their uncle Euron Greyjoy, both fleets nipping at each other up and down the coastlines.

The only semblance of calm anywhere in the Realm besides the North was far to the south, where both the Reach and Dorne united behind Daenerys Targaryen. But soon both armies would march forth, along with the Targaryen queen's dothraki riders and Unsullied legion.

War would tear the Seven Kingdoms into shreds, right before the onslaught of winter hit. Whoever finally ended up sitting on the bloody Throne might end up starving to death not a moment after.

Jon was ready to move south with an army of wights, but if he did he left the North open to intruders, especially if Sansa sent northern bannermen after their King to bolster his forces. They also needed those wights and those men to keep order between the unruly Lords and the myriad clans of Wildings that Jon had settled in the Gift.

Sansa thought long and hard about all the possible consequences of their actions. An alliance with the Dragon Queen could be a viable option to ending the war early and eliminating threats to the North in time to brace for Winter. Yet, she could not easily trust a Targaryen ruler, and the question of who would hold sovereignty over the North troubled her. As hard as she wracked her brain, Sansa could not find a way out of the situation where she guaranteed her family's safety. She couldn't possibly allow Jon to march into the madness of the south without a full army behind him!

Bran's words echoed in her mind. _Trust in Jon,_ he had said. _Our King Snow has greater power than you and I can possibly imagine, and it isn't all his ice magics._

Sansa heaved a sigh. She would trust in her older brother, and pray that the spirit of their father watch over him and keep him safe. She would see if working with the Mother of Dragons yielded any merit. Sansa set off to find Bran, and was already mentally composing multiple letters she would soon be sending on raven-wing.


	5. And Dark Wings

**A/N: Apologizes for the delay! I'm in a cram season for spring quarter, but I've made use of the extra time to jot down more notes and plan out more plot. I promise more regular uploads soon. (When summer hits y'all are going to be swamped by my writings)**

 **The Winged Wolf**

The world is a white, misty expanse. Bran begins to feel a slight wetness on his body, and decides that it's time to leave.

He lets out a caw.

Diving out through the cloud bank, the wind a sheer pleasure through his feathers, and his wingtips spread out wide to catch the last few wispy thermals of the day. Bran blinked his eyes, the sharp avian vision bringing into focus the train of men and horses below him.

Not quite a full army, but a strong northern warband that would be the speartip of his brother's march south. The giant raven let out another screech as the Twins rose in the distance, angling downward towards its destination.

Winter is Coming.

 **The King in the North**

Jon sat in the makeshift command tent, the raucous sounds of a camp being unpacked ringing through the cold evening air around him. He pored over the papers in front of him, written tallies of the numbers of men- _Close to three thousand,_ rations- _only enough for four weeks,_ and horses- _five hundred war mounts, a thousand packhorses._ A sudden headache snapped him out of his focus on the papers. He was recovered from the weakness that had plagued him before he crafted Blizzard, but every second he wasn't holding the frozen sword he felt so _exhausted_.

Or perhaps this was just how normal living felt in comparison to the elemental fury of wielding the true ice weapon.

He looked up at two men who had presented the letters and themselves as his military commanders. The young knight on the right cracked a nervous smile.

"Ser Medrick Manderly" he had introduced himself as, with a big grin on his face. The Manderly cousin had continued to enthusiastically shake Jon's hand when they had met outside the Twins, adding that "it was an honor to finally meet the King".

In stark opposition to the cheery young man was the grizzled northman beside him. Jon recognized the older man as Robett Glover, brother to Lord Galbart Glover. A hardened veteran who had marched with his brother Robb, he'd only offered Jon a knuckle to the brow and a grim nod upon arrival.

"My sister didn't send much with you did she?" spoke Jon, with a wry half-smile. Ser Medrick's nervous grin died on his lips. Robett remained singularly unamused.

"No. Not enough to take the Riverlands." replied the Glover lord. The Manderly knight hissed something about titles to Robett, who answered with a grunt. Jon couldn't blame him, the last Stark King to lead him south ended up dead with Robett held hostage. Medrick turned back towards Jon to offer him a wince and a shrug.

Jon held back a sigh. Surely Sansa could have spared a bit… more.

"Not enough men to take the Riverlands, but perhaps enough to rally the Riverlords to our cause. And they won't be going in alone." he said.

Robett raised an eyebrow. Medrick leaned in, curiosity sparking in eyes. "It's true then? We march with the wights? There are none so far south as White Harbor. Your Grace's Living Wall was the first time I'd layed eyes on them."

The older man cut in. "How many of the dead men go with us?"

"Twenty thousand. Any more and we leave the border weakened."

A thoughtful expression spread across the Glover lord's bearded face. "The corpses, they can match a living man in combat? How well can you command them?" he peppered Jon with queries. "My King." he quickly tagged on at the end.

"The wights are strong, but they can't wield weapons well. I can direct them myself, but the Others are much more adept at it. And the Others are quite intelligent, I'll have them follow your commands on the battlefield." answered Jon.

Medrick suddenly spoke up. "And is it true you can raise more, Your Grace? From the dead." The young man was unusually serious. Robett echoed the Manderly knight's severity.

When Jon finally found his voice, it came out quite hoarse.

"Aye." he swallowed thickly, mastered his emotions. "Aye, I can. And it will be necessary that I do, if we are to succeed."

The three men sat in silence for a moment, a somber mood filling up the command tent. The grimness stretched on a bit longer before Jon put his palms on the wooden table and made to dismiss the other two. "My lords-"

"Ah! I'd almost forgotten!" Medrick suddenly stood up. Just as suddenly, he clapped his mailed hands over his mouth, looking mortified. "My King, I beg your forgiveness for the rude interruption!"

Jon waved him on. "There's nothing to forgive, my lord. Please continue." The knight offered him a bow, and then his countenance brightened up again.

"I'd forgotten to show you the surprise. The Lady Sansa omitted it from the papers because we weren't sure they'd be ready in time for the expedition."

"The surprise?" Jon was quite puzzled. What else could Sansa have in store for him?

Ser Medrick bade him to follow him out of the command tent and walk towards the edge of camp. Robett Glover brought up the rear as they strolled through the expanse of canvas tents and soldiers, a few of whom offered a bow and quick "My King" or "Your Grace" at the sight of Jon. Soon, the three of them cleared the camp and saw what was standing in formation along the road.

Jon had to admit, he was quite stunned at the sight.

A column of iron titans, a solid wall of metal and flesh.

By the Gods, Sansa's outdone herself. Armored Giants.

At least a dozen of them, each one with a simple breastplate, closed helm and greaves, blown up to Giant proportions. They held crude weapons, great clubs fashioned from whole trees, gargantuan stone sledgehammers, and two of them had oaken steel-reinforced tower shields large enough to cover an entire squadron of men- or to enough to crush an entire squadron of enemy soldiers into paste.

"My King, we only had enough material to gear twenty giants, but they are an awe-inspiring sight are they not?" Ser Medrick exclaimed proudly. "We even had enough left-over metal for their shaggy beasts!"

"Indeed." There were five mammoths, each one with steel war tusks. "How did you even manage?"

Robett stepped in with the answer. "We melted down the scrap collected from the Bolton men. Reforged them into the sets of armor and one big bloody sword."

Quite. The largest Giant standing was standing in front of the group, and strapped to his back was a colossal greatsword the size of three men. The giant took a few lumbering steps towards Jon, and lifted the visor on his helm to reveal a familiar face.

" _Snow."_ he rumbled in greeting.

"Wun Wun!" Jon called out in return. Last he'd saw of his old friend, he was striding off alone towards the Frostfangs to find any surviving clans. Jon was glad that the Giant had succeeded in reuniting with his people.

Wun Wun lifted one enormous fist and pounded it proudly on the white direwolf etched onto his breastplate.

" _Captain Wun."_ the giant corrected him.

Jon felt a feral grin stretch across his face. He turned around to the two officers behind him. Both Manderly and Glover visibly straightened up when they caught sight of his expression.

"The men can rest for the night. Make sure the equipment is in good shape." the men nodded at him. "At dawn, we march south."

They promptly strode off into the camp, and Jon noted the ease which Ser Medrick bellowed at the soldiers with, and Robett Glover's calm and quiet confidence so reminiscent of his own father. Wun Wun grumbled something to his fellows in the strange Giant's dialect of Old Tongue as the Giants began to encamp, and Jon finally felt a sense of assurance settle over him. He would see his goal to completion. Perhaps Sansa had left him in good hands after all.

 **The Wise Drunkard**

Tyrion gulped down another glass of Dornish Red. He slammed the empty glass down onto the Painted Table, right over the Reach. Daenerys sat on the other end of the massive stone slab, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

"Is this what you've been doing the whole time I was gone?"

He fixed her with a glare. "What possessed you to leave in the first place? The whole council was in an uproar. You even had _me_ worried."

Daenerys' face softened. "I know. Your concern is touching. And it's the only reason I'm allowing you to yell at your Queen."

Tyrion reminded himself that his liege was a still only a young woman, and bit back his scathing remark. It helped that he remembered what it felt like to be within the range of a dragon's jaws. Instead, he settled for a sanctimonious harrumph and kicked his feet up onto the Summer Sea.

"I wasn't the most concerned anyways. I'd half a mind that poor Grey Worm would try to swim out to slay the King Jon Snow himself, when I saw the expression on his face."

Daenerys looked rueful as she answered him. "You can't lash at him so, Tyrion. The fact that I was chained is a great insult to not just me, but all those I have freed in Essos. Grey Worm and Missandei both were quite agitated." She her voice suddenly changed pitch. "Tyrion, I distinctly recall telling you to stop drinking."

Tyrion stopped midway through refilling his glass with the pitcher of wine. He narrowed his eyes at his Dragon Queen.

"I deserve this. I kept the squabbling army from falling to pieces in your unexpected absence, and I didn't even need Ser Barristan to kill anyone to accomplish it." He then proceeded to keep filling his glass to the brim, though the telltale look of bubbling anger on Queen Daenerys' face made him stop at three-quarters full.

Good enough.

"So, tell me about the King in the North. He chained you as an insult? Seems odd coming from the solemn Jon Snow I remembered traveling with- I suppose the passing years and a kingship will change any man."

"No, you might not be wrong. I greatly doubt King Jon intended to purposely disgrace me by placing me in manacles. He seemed too… guileless for such subtle politicking. He had the chains stricken off the second he met with me." Daenerys recalled.

"Ah, the famous Stark honor. His father was the same way, right up until he got torn apart by the sharks in the capitol." he raised his wine glass in remembrance for the late Lord Eddard Stark. Daenerys grimaced at his jape, before quickly changing the topic.

"What are the recent developments with the war?"

"Our armies crawl up the Roseroad. Cersei will have to meet us soon, she'd be a fool not to attempt a choke at Bitterbridge. The Greyjoy lad sent a raven saying he's chased Euron Crow's Eye into the Summer Sea… at the cost of a quarter the Iron Fleet."

"Ser Barristan mentioned an attempt on Dragonstone."

Tyrion scoffed. Barristan was such a stick in the mud. "It was nothing. A few ships sailed our way, and the dragons torched them. Varys has confirmed with me that the Royal Fleet is still in tatters." He eyed Daenerys from the side. "I don't suppose Ser Barristan told you anything else?"

"No, but he did say you had something important to tell me." she raised a single eyebrow.

"Of course, he leaves me to deliver the bad news." he sighed.

"Tyrion."

Tyrion cursed under his breath. "Highgarden was sacked." His Queen furrowed her brows. Uh oh. "My brother rode around Goldengrove to avoid the army and met up with a contingent from the Westerlands, led a lightning raid. They'll be holed up with the wheat and gold at Casterly Rock soon."

"My Lord Hand, was it not _your_ idea to send the majority of the Reachmen to march along the Roseroad?" Daenerys' voice took on a dangerous edge.

Tyrion was quick to mitigate damage. "Lord Garlan and his sister escaped safely, along with most of their household knights- they'll soon meet up with the Unsullied rear guard."

Daenerys thought for a moment before continuing in a much calmer tone. "This isn't a total disaster. Send word to Lord Garlan to stay with the rear guard for now. He and his sister are safest with them until we can spare enough men to safely hold Highgarden. Let the commander of that Unsullied legion know that his Queen commands him to make for Crakehall."

Tyrion stood, confusion clear on his face. "What? A single legion of Unsullied to attack the West? They haven't enough men to take-" he stopped as the the realization hit him like a post-harvest festival hangover. "The King in the North."

Daenerys smirked.

"Tell me he didn't bend the knee already." he pleaded. Daenerys' smile dropped from her lips. "Oh thank the gods, if you'd managed that then I'd be out of a job."

"My Lord Imp, you really are testing me this day." He bowed. Daenerys clucked at him before continuing. "King Jon Snow has not bent the knee to me, because he doesn't fear my power. He commands great power of his own. But we will see if that changes when we meet again at the lion's den."

"What?" he had a bad premonition.

"It is time for us commanders to join with our armies." Daenerys smiled a dragon's toothy grin. "Why, Lord Tyrion, it just occurred to me that you've yet to experience flying on dragonback."

 **The Wild Wolf**

Sansa had somehow managed to remain a bore.

Don't get her wrong, her older sister was a marvel to behold. The years had turned Sansa into a breathtakingly beautiful woman, and the hardships she had endured forged her into a spirit as strong and sharp as steel. Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell.

Still, such a _bore._

Arya had finally come home, home to Winterfell, and Sansa refused to let her help the family. She had been horrified when Arya told her about the justice she'd exacted at the Twins, but Sansa couldn't hide the spark of satisfaction in her eyes when she elaborated about what Arya had subjected old Walder Frey to.

So why was she so against her going out to do the same again?

"Because the Vale is a completely different place! It's not just a single castle, the Eyrie is the most secure fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. And Lord Baelish is not Old Walder Frey."

"You said it yourself that we couldn't send more help to Jon because Baelish is poised to strike the North as soon as we're open. By the way, I am _furious_ that he somehow managed to be gone the exact time of my returning. The faster I fix our problem in the Vale, the sooner I can go with our forces to meet up with Jon." Arya wanted to show Jon that she learned to use Needle properly. The last time she had seen her older brother was when she was barely still a tot- back when their family was still whole.

Nymeria must have sensed her distress, because somewhere out in the Wolfswood a massive pack of wolves howled.

Arya shook off the bad memories. _The pack is together again._ And they were stronger than ever. Bran was a greenseer, Jon could command wights and White Walkers, and Sansa was in charge of the entire North. And Arya- well she was just Arya. And when she wasn't- she got very, very dangerous.

"Arya! Are you okay?"

She snapped back into reality as Sansa gripped her shoulders. Her sister's big blue eyes were drilling into Arya's grey ones. "I'm fine, I just got distracted for a moment."

Sansa looked doubtful. "I know we talked about your abilities. I know you can take care of yourself. But I'm already dealing with Jon out there, I can't have you leaving too; running where I can't help you."

Arya reached up and gripped her older sister right back. "Sansa. You have to trust me. I can help you, I can help Jon. I'm capable of much, much more than you know. _You have to trust me._ "

Sansa breathed in deep, and when she exhaled she fixed Arya with her "Lady of Winterfell" look. Arya sighed. Time to give up for today. Of course she could just slip away whenever she wanted, but she wouldn't betray family like that.

"You should trust her, Sansa."

Arya giggled. Because family would always come in for the save. Sansa turned towards the doorway in astonishment. "Bran!"

Their younger brother wheeled himself into the room. His stoic face tinged with just a slight amount of bemusement.

"Arya speaks the truth. She's capable of much more than you realize. We should place more trust in her. Like Jon would, if he were here."

"Bran, she wants to leave for the Vale, after she just got back."

Sansa brought up good points, but Arya wasn't worried. From what Arya's observed since her return to Winterfell, Bran rarely lost arguments these days.

"Arya can solve the issue in the Vale quicker than any other methods we have available to us. The faster it's handled, the sooner we can go to Jon. And believe me, the threat is not over yet. Jon will need us soon."

Sansa bit her lip in concertation, but Arya could see that the day was won. They had a duty to serve their King, and an obligation to support their eldest sibling.

"I'll go pack my bags."

 **The King in the North**

He spotted the writhing swarm of men far beneath him, looking to his eyes like so many ants. He could hear brief snatches of yelling and screaming as the humans sorted themselves into battle lines, sounds caught between the roar of the wind.

A storm was brewing.

He winged around in the air and started flying back the way he had come. Before he could get very far he was suddenly dropped back into his own body.

Jon blinked rapidly, straightening up from the slouch that he had been in while his mind inhabited the form of the giant raven Bran had sent him. Jon could still recall the contents of the small slip of parchment attached to it's leg.

 _This is Farsight. He's the largest raven I've found in the True North, and I didn't name him purely for a jape. He's got the sharpest eyes of any bird I've flown in yet._

Jon knew what his brother was aiming for right away, he was no fool. Jon had been slacking on the usage of his warging. Every time he tried to spend time in the skin of a creature, the absence of Ghost was a piercing pain in his chest that made Jon quit the attempt.

He recognized the raven as Bran's way of bringing him out of the grief, and so Jon would honor his wishes and attempt to bond with the bird.

As if on cue, Farsight came circling down from the sky, landing on Jon's left shoulder and pecking away at his hair.

"Shoo!"

The raven let out an indignant caw and fluttered a few feet away to nest on a tree branch. Somehow, Farsight managed to fix Jon with a peevish look. Jon let out a sound of exasperation.

"Look, I'm sorry I broke out of the warging so suddenly. I'm not used to ravens." he said. Farsight replied with a squawk.

Jon rubbed at his forehead. "I'm talking to a bird. I am going crazy." He could feel another headache coming on. He summoned a bit of a shimmering true ice and let it play over his hand. The feel of it cooled the pain in his temple, and the sight of the shifting colors was mesmerizingly beautiful.

 _The enemy approaches. We are in position._

The chill voice of the Others brought him back to the present. Jon mounted his stallion, a hardy Free Folk mount with a dappled grey and white coat. He rode back towards the war camp and quickly found Ser Medrick and Lord Robett Glover.

"It's time."

The two commanders quickly spread through the camp, notifying the men as quickly and quietly as possible. Soon, a steady stream of hard-eyed northmen flooded out of the encampment, each one armed to the teeth and grim-faced in preparation for the carnage soon to come. Bringing up the rear was the steady thump-thump of Giant feet on the ground, and flanking the entire group were dead silent shadows ghosting through the darkness of the woodlands.

Blue eyes in the night.

 **The Masked Wolf**

The rather nondescript man stepped off the boat as it docked at Gulltown. He looked west towards the Eyrie and grinned toothily. He swung a leather bag packed with dried rations over his shoulder and set off along the western road. Time to do what he did best.


	6. Blue Eyes in the Night

**A/N:** You guys are spoiling me with all the favorites, follows, and words of encouragement. Thank you so much, please enjoy the chapter!

 **The King in the North**

The clash of men was a crescendo roar, the clang of metal on metal, the impacts of arrow rain, the battlecries and the yelling, the sounds of dying men and horses.

The sickening noise of steel parting meat. The music of war was much alike a continuous scream of pain.

As his bannermen surged around him and pushed back the howling footmen that made up the enemy frontline, Jon took a brief respite to catch his breath. He stood there heaving, in the mud and the blood, then wiped the grime from his eyes and surveyed the field.

It was hellish.

As with many things, it had gone much smoother on the map, where men were wooden markers and actions were still plans.

 _Ser Medrick put down the final lions-head piece that represented the Lannister forces, some ten to fifteen-thousand footmen and an addition five-thousand knights. The enemy were arrayed in a rough claw shape, their left and right flank swollen with numbers._

 _Jon and his two commanders stood around the large wooden table in the king's tent, upon which rested a large map of the surrounding area, its corners weighed down by stones._

 _Robett snorted. "The Lannister fucks aren't being very subtle, are they?" Medrick nodded his assent, tracing the map along the path of the predicted Lannister assault._

" _They're setting up to pincer us, crush our soldiers under the weight of their larger numbers and superior calvary. The Westerlander knights will attempt to funnel us in between them and grind us to dust with their men-at-arms and peasant levies in the center." spoke the young Manderly knight. His Glover compatriot sneered._

" _Weak-kneed southroun fish-lords are quick to offer up men to fight against their own allies. Not so long ago, most of those foot soldiers and a few of those knights marched with us against the Lannisters." growled Robett._

 _Jon frowned at him. "Keep in mind, my lord, that we failed to do our duty as allies to the Riverlands when the North lost the war and ceded these lands."_

" _Aye, but the war isn't yet over. We let the Lions rest easy for these past years, but now we're back to finish what they started." the Glover man met Jon's gaze with steady determination. He didn't hold the stare long. Jon knew his eyes unsettled even the most hardened men._

 _Medrick glanced between the two of them, chewing his lip. He stabbed at the map again with a finger. "If we spread our battle lines out wide, they'll have a harder time herding us together, and-"_

" _No." said Jon. "We won't play to their strategy. They think their knights invincible, their army's flank secure. The Others and the wights will break the left and right wings, and once the force is scattered the men will move in as a group to finish them." The Manderly knight looked unconvinced._

" _Your Grace, you are so sure that the enemy will break formation?"_

" _This will be the first time these men face the Army of the Dead. They will break and flee." he said, bitterly. Medrick accepted his surety and didn't question the source of it._

 _Even if places as far south as White Harbor had not seen the wights, all in the North knew the story of the War for the Dawn, which- to their shame- had been fought mostly by Free Folk and Watchers on the Wall._

 _Robett looked nonplussed by Jon's stratagem. The Glover lord rummaged through one of the wooden chests in the makeshift war room until he pulled out a faded looking scroll that he spread out over the table. It was a map detailing a larger section of the Riverlands than just the local woodlands, and he drew their attention to the Trident._

" _There's a reason why they gave us Oldstones and Fairmarket without so much as a whimper. They want to shove us back into the Blue Fork- mounted horsemen can trample us once our backs are to a river. I say once_ we _break_ them, _we hit their left flank hard and drive them south, into the Red Fork."_

 _Jon scanned the map, humming, before nodding his assent to the idea. He placed both hands onto the solid oaken table, meeting the eyes of his two commanders._

" _My lords, this is a sound battleplan. Ser Medrick, I grant you command of the mounted units and the giants, assuming you can get Captain Wun to listen. Lord Glover, you will command the main body of bannermen and the archery squadrons."_

" _And you, my King? Where shall you be?"_

" _At the frontlines. How will my men fight for me, if I do not fight for them?"_

A northern footman offered him a leather waterskin, and Jon took it gratefully. He drained it empty, and the drink felt so divine on his tongue he couldn't tell if it was water or mead. Even the briefest of battles seemed to sap all the liquid from a man, leaving him exhausted and parched. The lines of combat had closed when the sun hung low in the sky, and now nightfall was setting in. Soon it would be dark, and then the fighting would turn truly vicious.

Up ahead of him, the battlefield surged as a wedge of men in red tunics shoved hard against the men in grey, and the northern line buckled inwards. If the Lannister forces pushed through the center before the Others and their dead legion reached them, it would spell total disaster. The greater enemy numbers would roll over his much smaller force. They had to hold. He sheathed the steel longsword that he had been using in battle until now, and drew on the cold font of his power.

Jon summoned Blizzard, near five feet of wicked true ice, and pointed its tip to the sky.

" _For Winterfell!_ " He called, and the northmen around him roared in return, rallying around him. Jon dropped the point of his sword and charged the Lion banners with a wordless and feral cry. His men rushed with him, but Jon pulled ahead, bounding forth with Other-worldly strength. He kept his frozen greatsword braced against the shoulder pauldron of his half plate, and his free arm pumped as he covered ground with frightening speed.

As he approached the knot of Lannister soldiers, their leader pointed at Jon and screamed at his men, whipping them into a flurry of motion as they raised shields and lowered spears and halberds, bracing for the charge.

When Jon passed the last of the Stark bannermen between he and the formation of Westerlanders, he kicked off the ground and launched himself straight at them, holding his left hand before him.

Right before he made contact, the air in front of Jon shimmered and crystallized into a curved wall of true ice, near ten feet in each direction. The ever-changing ice shattered every weapon that it touched before smashing into the group of enemy footmen- and either bowled them over or sent them flying like ragdolls.

Mere moments later, his men who had followed behind joined the fray, tearing into the stunned and wounded enemy like a pack of wolves. Blades rose and and fell, and scarlet lifeblood sprayed across the mire that was the ground below.

The Lannister soldiers to either direction closed ranks on Jon and the men that had charged in with him. Jon soon found himself beset on all sides, grim faced men-at-arms and grounded knights looking to claim the head of a king, confident he would fall to their numbers.

They were mistaken.

He ducked and lunged, swung his sword in wide, slashing arcs that took a terrible toll on the soldiers who had surrounded him. Blizzard sang a dreadful song of blue ice and white wind, of blood and of death.

Jon watched with a cold detachment as his true ice blade cut a lion knight's enameled armor, passing through steel, muscle, and bone with what felt like no resistance. The corpse fell to the ground in two pieces, bisected metal armor already frosting over.

The thundering of hooves behind him prompted Jon to twist around with frightening alacrity, narrowly avoiding a lance in the back. He countered with lightning speed, the frozen edge of Blizzard flashing up, decapitating the horse and slicing through the waist of it's rider.

His ears picked up on faint whistle of fletchings through air above, and a frozen barrier snapped into place overhead, fast as thought. A moment later, Jon heard the _thunk-thunk-thunk_ of a volley of arrows impacting his wintry bulwark.

Wave after wave of men crashed upon Jon and the front line of the main body of northmen. Men on both sides died in droves, but still they held.

Jon's men. His soldiers, his people.

They held.

They fought like wolves, they screamed, they bled, they died.

But they held.

 _We arrive._

Farsight's sharp eyes confirmed it. Twin trails of destruction marked the Other's progress through the wings of the Lannister host. They were fast approaching Jon's position at the center of the battle, and left behind them chaos. Wights were tearing through the enemy like wildfire, and the roars of rage were fast turning into shrieks of terror. The Lion's battle lines were irreparably disrupted.

Man was not well suited to face that which lurked in the night.

"White Walkers!"

Jon's sight refocused into his own eyes just in time to shatter a sword thrust towards his breast. He also managed to catch the sight of the first group of Others that reached him. The first Walker burst in from Jon's left, leaping clear over the wall of Lannister soldiers, flanked by two of it's eerie brethren. Jon recognized the leader as one of the two he had brought with him to capture Daenerys Targaryen, and had been present when he forged his sword of ice.

Watching the Others lay waste to the enemy footmen reminded Jon why the Free Folk called them _cold gods_. They were pale blurs on the field of battle, turning groups of footmen and knights into mincemeat. Some of the Lannister men around them simply stopped and stared. They died with expressions of disbelief on their faces.

The trio of Others fought not only with their crystal swords, but also with the elements. They unseated riders and froze whole swathes of soldiers with blasts of freezing white wind, and impaled men on great spikes of ever-changing ice. The leader cut down ten men in half as many seconds, before turning and meeting Jon's blue eyes with it's own glowing azure orbs.

 _We have disrupted them._

The Others moved so fast they preceded the pandemonium they had caused on their bloody path here. The fear hit like a shockwave, spreading from the back ranks of the Lannister men in view towards where they were in the center of the field. Jon witnessed as the enemy's orderly lines of battle collapsed into disarray, some fleeing outright and the rest spitting into small knots of soldiers- all desperately defending against the sudden swarm of howling, shrieking wights.

A massive raven soared over the carnage. Many of his smaller brethren were already flocking in the sky, hungry for the fresh meat. Farsight's eyes picked out the details of the battle below him, and the images were etched into the mind of the man who was warged into him. The Lion banners were swamped by the Army of the Dead. Their strong and prideful wings were snapped, and now was the time to swing the killing blow.

The raven winged down towards the the northern edge of the battle, seeking to land on a particular knight of the Merman, as was the prearranged signal.

Jon was suddenly pulled back into his own body, as a Stark bannerman yanked him out of the way of a spear thrust, and promptly took a steel spearhead in the eye as morbid penance. Jon stabbed out with Blizzard, and the tip of the greatsword cut through the spearman's gorget and into his throat.

Damn it all to hell, he'd sunken too deep into the mind of the raven again. A fatal mistake in the midst of combat, and now one of his men had to pay that deadly price. He could now only hope that Farsight reached Medrick before the Lannisters reformed ranks.

The King of Winter, his loyal northmen, the blue-eyed Walkers and their wailing undead host shoved hard against the nearly broken men of the Westerlands. Jon cleaved through the lines of chainmail, armor, and red tunic, and soon he was so covered head-to-toe in filth he had to regularly wipe his eyes on the rough leather of his vambraces. The fighting reached a fervor pitch, and some battle-sense deep within Jon told him that the Northern army was slowly gaining the upper hand. Despite the Lion's greater numbers, his servants and their horde of wights had shifted the battle in Jon's favor. Soon, the perfect moment would arrive, the optimal time to strike the hammerblow that would shatter the enemy. He could feel it his bones.

A trumpeting cry split the battlefield. Unbidden, Jon felt a grim smile stretch across his face.

The earth rumbled beneath the feet of the combatants, and suddenly the adversaries to the north of Jon _lurched_ southward, as an unyielding wave of steel and flesh crashed into them. Ser Medrick Manderly, resplendent in the blue and white of his House, leading the charge of a over a hundred mounted men as they cut a swath through the panicking Lannister men. The full force of the cavalry charge was a fearsome sight, as the Manderly knights drove their horses in a tight wedge, lancing or trampling every poor sod unfortunate enough to be in their path. And yet, the knights were merely harbingers of the true storm.

"By the Gods!" screamed a man, right before he was gored by the steel-covered tusk of a charging bull mammoth. The rest of his unit barely had time to raise up wooden shields before they were smashed by an oversized sledgehammer, with grisly results. The giants had entered the field.

Captain Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun lead twenty of his people on an unstoppable advance through the enemy. The giants lashed out with hammers and clubs, sending men, horses, and wights flying through the air or squashing them into a bloody paste onto the ground. Their fourteen-foot captain stamped forth and laid waste all around him with a giant-sized greatsword, the enormous weapon's bulk crushing anything it hit just as often as it cut with it's edge.

The war mammoths trampled over any soldier in their path, and at the head of the great stampede was a the same juggernaut of a bull that had announced their arrival. The massive male trumpeted once again, raising his forelegs into the air, and then bringing them down onto a knot of Lannister spearmen that had been threatening him. Jon dived into his mind and was almost immediately thrown back into his own body by the pulsing red rage and pain that clouded the animal's senses. But Jon had been in control of the mammoth for long enough to leave just one message.

 _Go South._

The charging wall of meat and furs crashed through the right flank into the enemy's left, the giants following right behind and driving all the Westerlander soldiers before them like macabre shepherds. As Wun Wun crossed the field, the giant turned and spotted Jon, his hefty metal greathelm nodding up and down. " _Snow."_ Jon heard his deep rumble even over the din of battle. A particularly brave footman saw the opening and ran up to sink his blade into Captain Wun's boot. The captain turned and kicked the offender with his other leg, and Jon heard the sickening _thwack_ as the man was wrapped around the metal greave covering Wun Wun's shin.

The Giants stamped through the battlefield, and their long strides covered ground nearly as fast as the horsemen who had preceded them. In what felt like seconds after their entrance, they swept all the enemy before them southward, as the Lannisters broke and fled before these fantastical and horrifying new adversaries that none of them had ever faced before. Soon, all that was left on the battlefield near Jon was him and his shocked men, along with a few stragglers.

He turned and looked at his own army, and took in their expressions of astonishment.

"Well, what are you gaping at? After them!" he bellowed. The Army of the North raised swords into the sky as one and roared back, before turning and rushing southwards hot on the heels of their enemies.

Jon sprinted forward, his blood pumping. Blizzard filled his veins with icy vigor, and the cold font of power within him swirled like a snowstorm. Once again, he quickly outpaced his army. Well, most of his army. The three Others kept pace with him easily, bounding over the ground with the same supernatural speed and strength that he did. The leader, now familiar to Jon, pulled ahead to match his stride.

They sprinted over the muddy ground, following the tracks of earth crushed under giant and mammoth feet, as well as the clear trail of corpses.

Jon traded looks with the ancient creature, as a servant of his now- just has it had been a servant of the terrible Great Other that had once seeked to dominate all the realms of men. Despite how they were all nearly similar, something about this particular Other seemed to set it apart, beyond way the others seemed to defer to it. There was a light in it's glowing eyes that communicated age, even wisdom. Jon felt that this one was long in the tooth, if even a creature that was everlasting could be considered elderly. Jon suppressed a sudden laugh that tried to climb out of his breast. It was as good a name as any.

"I'll call you Longtooth." he proclaimed. The Other's expression was changeless.

 _For what purpose._

"As a name. It's how I'm going to call to you as from now on." Jon drew inspiration from Bran's naming of his raven. It was more than just a jest, it was a reminder: that just like his old sword, Longtooth was a weapon.

 _A name is as pointless as the primitive method you use to communicate it. You still do not understand the eternal._

Jon snorted. "Aye, but I understand it enough to do this, don't I?" raising Blizzard in his right fist, before pouring on more cold power into his body and sprinting ahead. Soon, he and the Others heard the screams of warfare once again and cleared a small rise to see the sprawling Red Fork and the scene that played out on it's northern bank.

The Lannister host had been greatly reduced, Jon judged it to be perhaps half its original number, if not less. The bannermen were cornered, caught between the hammer of the giants and the anvil of the third river of the Trident. Hemmed in by at least five thousand wights, the Westerlander force had nowhere to flee as the giants and dead men carved into them with gruesome furor. But, as Jon continued to watch, a detachment of knights and mounted men-at-arms managed to break through the western side of the encirclement.

If those men escaped, they would flee into the Whispering Woods and make their way back to Riverrun, bringing with them news of Jon's numbers, his Giants, and his Army of the Dead. He couldn't let that happen.

Jon angled towards the breach, his loping gait eating up the distance as he accelerated towards the escaping horsemen. He felt his cold servants right behind him, and with that same uncanny timing all four of them leapt up into the air, before hitting the side of the group of riders like a thunderbolt.

Blizzard was the leading edge of Jon's mighty leap, cleaving through a man and his mount before carving a furrow into the riverbank. As Jon landed onto the ground, he reversed his grip on his true ice armament, raising it up hilt-first, its icy tip pointed down. Jon drew hard on the power of Winter. He thought of the freezing cold of the True North, the bite of being caught in a blizzard at Castle Black, the immovable bulk of the glaciers in the Shivering Sea. He thought of the Wall.

Jon slammed his sword down, the blade sinking down into the hard-packed earth of the riverbank as if it were soft sand. From that point of origin burst forth the blue-white shimmering form of true ice, spreading out all around him and rising up behind him, snapping into place as solid barrier reaching twenty feet into the air, cutting off the path of retreat for the Lannister knights.

The enemy mounts reared and turned at the sudden appearance of the obstacle, some could not slow enough in time and crashed headlong into the wall of ice. As the men fell from their saddles and tumbled onto the ground, Longtooth and his compatriots quickly moved among the survivors and slew them. The trapped men managed to reorganize themselves into a defense formation, horses wrested back under control, swords and spears leveled at the abrupt threat.

One rider, cloaked in red fox-fur, advanced to the front of the group, despite the protests of his mount. The horse's eyes were rolling wildly in it's sockets, and it was stamping it's hooves in both fear and panic. Yet, the knight kept a firm grim on the reins and refused to let the animal flee. Jon presumed this man was some kind of officer, based on the brilliance of his enameled armor, shining a proud Lannister crimson, golden etchings and Lion crest gleaming through the mud and blood. Then Jon took note of how all the men in this group were bearing signs and seals of commanding nobility, and how they all still deferred to this golden knight.

Not just any officer then. The general of the Lannister army himself. The man raised a gauntleted hand up to his helm and pulled it off, revealing a mass of yellow locks, long and shaggy, and a huge bristly beard of golden hair, almost in the style of the Umbers. The man looked ridiculous, but Jon found no humour in the situation, because the general's face was flushed with red with rage, his hazel eyes shining with deadly intent.

"You stand before Daven Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and commander of the armies of the Riverlands. I demand you name yourself, demon." his voice trembled with barely contained fury.

"Jon Snow."

Daven Lannister sneered. "The Bastard King in the North. And now you are a king of monsters as well." he gestured to the Others that flanked him. Longtooth took the opportunity to raise the freshly killed Lannister officers into wights. "The Seven damn you, Snow. You've betrayed mankind and sided with the beasts."

"Surrender now, Lord Daven, and I will spare your men." responded Jon, resting both gloved hands on the cold pommel of Blizzard.

The Lannister general merely chuckled, a harsh and bitter sound. "My men will not lay down arms to savages and northmen. Even if I ordered it so, they would rather die than be captive to monsters." he spat onto the ground. "Enough talk. I challenge you to single combat, to the death. I know you are no knight, but the law can go bugger itself. I haven't quenched my blade in nearly enough Northman blood to properly avenge my father."

Jon stared at Daven Lannister, his eyes glowing blue in the fading light. To his surprise, the other man held his stare without flinching.

 _We should slay and raise them._

 _No._

"I accept your challenge." Jon acknowledged the request by raising a fist into the air, and suddenly, the raging battle to the east began to die down.

The wights disengaged from the fighting, completely disregarding the desperate men who hacked at them as they reformed into the a half circle, trapping the remaining Lannister bannermen against the river. Wun Wun and the giants took the cue and broke off to stand near the little gathering of men by Jon's newly made wall. The two armies, living and dead, stood in sudden and wary ceasefire. Longtooth watched the occurrences before turning and staring at Jon, his cold whisper ringing in Jon's head.

 _This is a mistake. These actions are the least effective in killing the enemy._

When Jon answered, he addressed both his Other servants and the men facing them. "Single combat follows the Old Way, and we will end this battle with honor." he watched as Daven dismounted and pulled a greatsword from the sheath strapped to his saddle. Jon lifted his hands off of Blizzard, allowing it dissipate into motes of crystalline ice. Instantly, he felt a flood of fatigue and pain wash over his body.

 _You are weakened without the True Ice._

Jon drew the simple steel longsword he had kept at his side. He stepped forth to meet Daven. "Surrender now, my lord, and you will spare yourself some injury." he stated.

"I will enjoy hacking your head from your shoulders, bastard." avowed the Lannister lord.

Lord Daven, in his gilded and painted armor, clad in fine fox-fur, stood in stark contrast to King Jon Snow, who wore simple steel half-plate over a ragged leather tunic and a tattered cloak. The two men met in the center of the impromptu arena with a clash of steel and wordless battlecries.

Daven hammered with a double-handed grip- using his greater height and longer reach, and the fine castle-forged greatsword, as richly made and golden as he, crushing down on Jon. The king's own shorter longsword deflected the blows with barely enough room to spare, and Jon felt the exhaustion set deeper into his limbs with each strike.

And yet, his blue eyes burned strong as they watched the movement of his opponent, and Jon marveled that the man could move so _slow._ He watched as the next strike fell onto him from above, moving as though the air was as thick as honey. Jon's own body screamed in protest but he had plenty of time to step out of the way, lashing out with his right arm to dig the point of his sword into a chink of the Lannister's armor.

Daven roared in pain and rage, slashing at Jon in wide swings to force him back and away after drawing blood. Despite his fury, the enemy knight still maintained form and control, single-mindedly trying to land a killing blow on the Northman. Jon found himself admiring the man's discipline, for not many could maintain a level head after injury- this Daven Lannister was a dangerous swordsman.

Jon saw the next attack coming, a horizontal swing that would bisect him if it landed. He leaned backwards out of the arc of the weapon as it passed before him, and then struck it hard near the crossguard with a vicious two handed swing- from lower right to upper left. Daven lost his grip on the handle of the weapon, and it hung loosely from his left hand only. Jon took a step in, bringing Daven into range of his longsword, and with slash from above severed the man's left arm at the elbow.

Daven Lannister screamed with agony as his armored limb and the greatsword crashed onto the riverbank. He fell to his knees and caught himself with the remaining arm, blood pouring out from the stump of his left. Jon leaned down and with his free hand sealed the wound shut with shifting ice.

"Surrender." he intoned. "You've lost."

"No." gasped Daven, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "Never." He looks up at Jon and smiles through the blood and pain. "And so, it ends."

"No, my lord. It has only just begun."

The sound of the rest of his army approaching filled the air. The noise of more than a thousand men howling for blood. They joined the dead men and the giants at the banks of the Red Fork, crushing the remaining Westerlanders into the river.

And the rest was a slaughter.

 **Dragon Queen**

"A letter, Your Grace." he spoke.

"From?" questioned Daenerys.

"The biggest bloody fucking raven I've ever seen."

She coughed, and Tyrion had the good grace to put on an apologetic expression. "It is marked with the direwolf seal of House Stark. A white wolf, the sigil of King Snow." he continued. Daenerys took the offered letter from the dwarf and opened it.

The letter was short, but she read it over multiple times regardless. Wordlessly, Daenerys handed the letter back to Tyrion, who also scanned it over.

"Impossible." he exclaimed.

"And yet." replied Daenerys. "It has been done."

"I heard whispers about this from a rider come in from Stoney Sept. I'd thought it either false or greatly exaggerated but… this is from King Jon himself. The bastard did it."

"The Riverlands will soon be freed, and the gates to the West thrown open. The foundation of Cersei's power." mused Daenerys.

"The minstrels have already named it: The Battle of the Bloody Fork. Or The Slaughter at the Trident. Not sure which one I like better." rejoined Tyrion.

Daenerys stood up from her seat inside the lavish royal tent, and strode towards the opening. "It seems we will have to make our way to the West sooner than expected."


	7. Of Blood, False and True

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait! Life caught up to me for a bit back there.

 **Virulent Flower**

Arianne rose to meet the rising sun, clambering out of the rich Essosi silks and walking over to the nearby window. The morning sunlight peeked through the trees in the courtyard outside, casting dappled shadows over her nude form.

The young man still asleep in her bed let out a moan and rolled over. She reached her arms up and behind her head to stretch, licking her lips, catlike. This most recent lover had been hardly proficient, but he was young and therefore energetic, which suited her needs well.

Still, nothing even approaching how wonderful her Arys had been. Arianne really needed to try bedding more Kingsguard.

She poured herself a glass of Dornish red and sipped it while considering which dress to wear for the day.

The yellow one, cut a bit higher on the bosom than usual but with beautiful lace.

After dressing, she exited the chamber to be greeted by the sight of her cousin Nymeria. The Sand Snake offered a dip of the head and wry smile. "Cousin."

"Nym, lovely as ever. Tell me, how is our little captive princess today?"

"Quiet as ever. Her wounds have healed up well, although she won't ever be as… pretty as she once was." reported Nymeria.

Arianne merely hummed in response, striding down the hallway towards the open courtyard. Nymeria fell in slightly behind her. Arianne took a moment to admire her cousins almost predatory grace of motion, all lean muscle under flawless Dornish beauty.

"I think I will go speak with her, as it would be quite rude of us to leave her so uninformed of the great excitements happening to her kingdom." laughed Arianne. "Tell me of our armies, and if there has been any further instruction from my father."

Nymeria began to bring her up to date. "The men of Dorne continue to march with the Targaryen Queen. The armies make a slow pace towards the capitol, though a battle is imminent- if it hasn't happened already." she paused for a moment, and Arianne turned to look Nymeria in the eye, sensing the weight of the silence. "The Prince Doran has informed me that we are to travel to The Tor, and take a ship to the Stormlands. To meet with this man who claims the name Aegon Targaryen and find out if truly is who he says he is."

Arianne's expression tightened up, brows sinking in thought. It was a few minutes before she spoke again, and the two had nearly arrived at their destination. "If we travel, we must do so quickly and pack lightly. Only a trusted few can come with us. My father risks the wrath of Queen Daenerys with his actions, and she still has that fat Spider working for her." Nymeria nodded in agreement.

The two women turned a corner and reached a guest bedchamber, set a ways off from the other living quarters. Arianne reached out and gently knocked on the door.

"Come in." a soft voice called out through the wooden entryway.

Arianne entered the room with a smile, a contrast to the nervous and pensive expression worn by the princess Myrcella Baratheon. She was missing an ear, and the left side of her face was scarred, though the marks had healed and faded into a silvery white.

"You have nothing to fear from us, dear princess." Arianne consoled, reaching out to clasp the young girl's hands in her own. "Soon, you will be able to return home, and mayhaps even still become a Queen."

 **The King in the North**

"Report."

"Of ours, three hundred dead, perhaps twice as many men wounded, we're still tallying. Of the enemy, about two thousand men captured, mostly peasant levies. Twenty officers of some note, including the Lord Lannister that Your Grace had brought low. The rest of their army is either scattered to the winds or resting at the bottom of the Red Fork." Medrick looked in good shape, but shifted back and forth uncomfortably.

The reason for his agitation was obvious, for Longtooth and his cold cohorts flanked Jon, refusing to leave his side after the bout of exhaustion he had suffered following the duel with Daven Lannister.

 _Raise more._ The image of the corpses picking themselves off the battlefield, opening blue eyes and standing on dead feet.

Jon grit his teeth, and the flash of rage dashed the image from his mind. He turned his attention back to the Manderly knight.

"Where is Lord Glover?" he questioned. Medrick grimaced and spat onto the ground.

"He got caught in one of the Lannister cavalry charges. One of his men saw him take a hoof to the helm, when I questioned him in the medical tents. Alive, but knocked cold, no clue when he could awake."

Jon swore. Ser Medrick continued.

"They also said that if his arm worsens, the medics might have to take it off."

Jon swore again, louder. Robett Glover was the only one of the three men who had experience commanding a traditional army, as both Jon and Ser Medrick had never faced southern forces before now.

Damn it all to the hells, Glover was supposed to be safe leading the army from the rear. How had the Lannister knights reached him?

Jon's thoughts were interrupted when a young man in Northern colors ran up. "My King, your uncle! We've found your uncle, come quick!" he shouted.

Jon had Blizzard swirling in his palm, half-formed, before he caught himself. Not at Castle Black. Not Thorne, nor the other traitorous brothers. He was alive, not dead. _Yet._

Jon shook his head to dispel the thoughts. He motioned his Other guards to stay and protect this command tent, and they acquiesced, though they somehow seemed almost... unwilling. Strange.

"Show me." he commanded. The young footsoldier lead the way through the makeshift camp near the banks of the Red Fork, headed towards a commotion happening in the medical tents.

Jon's head throbbed with intense pain, his thoughts plagued by the sudden trauma of that cold, cold, night at Castle Black.

The memories flooded into his mind, unbidden, and Jon saw himself kneeling in the icy snow again, hot blood pouring from his knife wounds, staring up at his traitorous brothers and their cold, cold eyes.

"My King." Medrick's voice and gauntleted hand on Jon's shoulder brought him back to reality. He hadn't even known that the merman knight had been following along.

"Are you well, My King?"

Jon pulled the ice to him, pooling the shifting coldness along his chest and belly, under the armor, and in his clenched fist, places where the other man wouldn't be able to see it.

"Aye, I'm fine."

Immediately the pain receded, soothed by the wintry frost spreading throughout his body. His mind finally cleared, and it suddenly struck Jon that he didn't even have any living uncles left.

He straightened his spine and pressed forwards, but he could still feel the exhaustion edging in through the cold strength of the ice.

The young man leading them had suddenly stopped, halted at the edge of a gathering crowd of men surrounding the hubbub near the wounded. Ser Medrick moved forwards and began pushing through.

"Make way! Make way for the King!", the man's booming sergeant's voice was really coming in well.

A path soon cleared, and Jon strode through the crowd and into the space enclosed within, where some of his bannermen had apparently already gotten a handle on the situation.

A dozen men in filthy, ratty leathers and patchwork armor had been subdued and restrained onto the ground by Stark men-at-arms, and a few Manderly knights surrounded the entrance of the medical tent, which was currently being guarded by a young woman.

"Back! Stay back I say! I'm warning you!" she shouted. The girl was clad in a long tunic just as muddied as her companions, but she held before her a bloodied and wickedly sharp looking longsword.

Medrick approached one of his men, his plate mail clanking with every step, the sound somehow conveying the knight's annoyance.

"Harlik, what in the name of the gods is this trouble now?"

The knight named Harlik turned around and sketched out quick bow for Jon before answering.

"The men were going through the tents and tallying dead and wounded, and when they attempted to enter this tent they were set upon by these lot." he motioned towards the bound up ruffians. "But we've got them well and truly under control now, as you can see."

The knight was fresh-faced with reddish hair, and the harried state of his equipment seemed to signify that the man had rushed out to deal with this issue in the middle of undressing.

"I do see." Jon eyed the knight. "And yet I do not see you regaining control of this tent and our medics within."

Ser Harlik coughed. "Ah, Your Grace, you see- " he coughed again, "Apologizes, but we were, ah, unsure of how to deal with the young lady…"

"Don't you set even a single foot forward you fucker!" The young lady in question brandished her longsword at one of the knights encircling her, who had intended to reach out and grab her arm. "Try to touch me and I'll skewer you!"

"Why? Is she an accomplished warrior? Would that be why you cannot pass, Ser Harlik?"

"Ah, nay, Your Grace. Our code of honor forbids us from striking a lady- "

"And yet, you and your knights are defeated all the same, Ser, by a single girl no less." Jon wasn't being fair to the poor man, but he was tired, hungry, down a commander, and still needed to draft fucking battle plans for a siege.

Ser Harlik trembled, which of course meant that his loose mail and hanging armor straps trembled with him. Medrick pointedly looked anywhere that wasn't Jon.

The King strode through the knights, and caught sight of the girl waving the sword back and forth like some sort of strange metallic snake.

"I-I won't let you pass! Don't you even dare... try to- " her words faltered when she noticed Jon, and died completely when she met his eyes. The blood seemed to drain from her face, though it didn't leave her nearly as pale as an Other.

Jon frowned. "Who did you say she was guarding again?"

"Ah, My King, these prisoners claimed to serve under the Bl- "

"Reyanna, let them pass." A voice from within the tent sounded out. It was an old, tired, voice, from an obviously injured man, and yet the sound of it set Jon on edge. Whoever had spoke was dangerous, some primal instinct warned him so.

The sword-wielding girl looked nervous, but did not turn away. "My Lord, are you certain?"

"Yes. Let me see this Bastard King."

"Enough of this farce." Jon strode forwards, and the girl gasped in surprise and swung her blade down at him, two-handed.

With blistering speed and cold fury Jon reached out and plucked the longsword out of her grasp by the blade, palming the handle with his free hand as he strode past her and into the medic's tent.

He the girl yelp and the thump of someone falling arse-first onto the ground.

He recognized the man lying in the linen cot, tended to by one of his army's medics, while a Silent Sister stood in the corner, waiting in case it became necessary for her to take over the job.

"The demonic and Bastardly King in the North." he rasped. "Truly I am blessed to see you on my deathbed."

"Blackfish."

Jon recognized him from the stories about his brother's march south, the old Tully knight often featuring as a both brave warrior and wise advisor. Not that it meant much in the end.

The wounded man was covered in bandages, with one wrapped around his right thigh noticeably soaked with blood. His long gray hair was matted and dirty, and his skin beaded with sweat and pale from blood loss. Despite that, Ser Brynden Tully's bright blue eyes still burned strong with strength.

Although, they surely did not burn with the same _blue_ that Jon's eyes did.

Jon cocked his head and examined the old man. His 'uncle', indeed. Jon had heard it told that Ser Brynden, and most all the Tullys, shared in Lady Catelyn's dislike of him, the living symbol of a dishonor done to her by his late Lord Father.

"Perhaps you could enlighten me on why it is I find you bleeding out in the middle of my army, Ser."

Brynden cracked a wry grin, and Jon could not place it as either sardonic or genuine.

"My band of men and I were riding south of here, and ended up meeting with some of Daven's outriders. So we had ourselves a little skirmish, and after getting struck down I awoke in this cot. I assume my men dragged me here looking for aid."

"Those hooligans outside?"

"Hooligans is the right word, I'll give you that boy. Motley crew of guardsmen, bandits, and poachers, but true and loyal Riverlanders all at the very least."

The Blackfish's tone and use of the word _boy_ rankled Jon, but he kept his calm. An inkling of a plan was starting to form in his head.

"I assume this blade is yours." He lifted the bloodied blade before him. It certainly did look as if it had just been through a hectic skirmish.

The wounded knight nodded.

"And who is the girl?"

Bryden opened his mouth to answer, but the King was not done speaking.

"The truth will suffice, Ser."

He pinned the old knight with his glowing azure eyes, and the Blackfish stared back. Impressive, for the man to meet and hold his gaze like so.

"Her name is Reyanna, and she is my natural born daughter."

A bastard daughter.

Jon turned away from Brynden and stared out the opening of the tent. To the West.

"Will you swear fealty to me, Blackfish? Will you serve me as you had served my brother Robb?"

"Your brother was brave, and a fool."

Jon heaved a long sigh, turning back to once again face Brynden.

"He was foolish, but he was a good and just King, and my brother who I loved. And yet, the results of his failures still linger. The Lannisters remain unpunished for their butchery, and their men continue to ravage the Riverlands."

He turned the Blackfish's bloody sword around and offered him the hilt.

"I have come south to rectify those failures. My army is now bloated with over a thousand Riverlander prisoners of war; should you convince them to follow you and kneel to me as your King, you'll ride by my side as I retake Riverrun and then march on for the Rock."

Jon left the tent minus one bloody longsword and plus one bloody commander, after sealing the Blackfish's grievous leg wound with his ever-shifting ice. He had confidence that the man would pull through, the old Tully was as tough as nails.

"Unbind those men." He commanded to the men-at-arms outside the tent. "Feed and equip them, have them camp near the prisoners."

Brynden's bastard daughter glared at him as he strode back to his command tent, Harlik and his knights dispersing the crowd that had gathered.

"Have the girl stay with the camp followers, but make sure she stays near her father." Medrick nodded.

As he passed by one of the cook fires, Jon's nose twitched and his stomach complained to him. Loudly.

"And get me a bowl of that, if you could." He pointed thick soup bubbling away in the large pot hung over the campfire.

 **The Queen of Fire**

Drogon rained fire below them, turning men and horses into ash and scorching the ground in a line of black smoke.

His brother swooped in from the side, wings of cream and gold beating as he too blasted dragonfire from his jaws onto the little soldiers beneath, the conflagration pouring forth and drowning the screaming victims in blazing waves of heat.

Drogon and Viserion landed in tandem, immediately lashing out with teeth, claws, and tails as they tore open a hole in the Lannister and Tarly men.

The dragons could slay a half dozen men with each snap of a gargantuan maw, and the swipe of a their sharp claws could send even a charging knight flying.

Dothraki flooded the gap, riding fearlessly past the rampaging beasts and laying into the enemy with screaming glee. They trusted in their Khaleesi, and in the fiery gods she commanded.

A hailstorm of arrows fell amongst them, the enemy archers peppering their own men as much as hers, but Daenerys understood why they accepted the price.

The death of the Dragon Queen was worth any sacrifice.

Drogon reared up with a roar of challenge as the missiles slammed into him, most bouncing of obsidian scales but a few finding chinks in the armor and lodging into the rough skin beneath. The roar of challenge turned into a roar of pain, and rage.

Daenerys willed her dragons up, up, up into the sky, where they were out of the danger of a lucky shot.

With the threat of the monstrous dragons suddenly removed, the Lion banners managed to quickly rally and began to push back at the Dothraki riders.

The screeching roar of men killing men reached Daenerys' ears even high up in air on dragonback.

Just when the tide seemed to turn back into the Crownland army's favor, Tyrion sprung his trap.

Dornish light cavalry rode over the hillside, followed by the army of Dornish spearmen, the Martell sun and spear raised proudly and warcries shouted even prouder as they slammed into the enemy's left flank.

A legion of Unsullied marched on the Lannister right flank, as silent and deadly as the grave.

Daenerys and both her dragons dived back down into the throng of panicked enemies in the center, a blazing inferno already pouring forth.

Fire and Blood.

Hours later, she sat in a richly furnished general's tent in the captured Lannister camp, relaxing in a copper bathtub as Missandei washed off the ash and grime from the day's battle.

She sighed and sank deeper into the hot water as the golden-eyed girl gently rubbed her sore back muscles.

Missandei giggled. "You are quite easy to please, My Queen."

Daenerys smiled back at her. "Your talent with massages are unrivalled, how can anyone blame me for enjoying them so?"

They were interrupted by one her new handmaidens entering the tent, a young woman named Dania, lent to her when they had departed from Highgarden. She was surely reporting on Daenerys' activities, but it would have been rude to refuse her service, and Daenerys needed to become accustomed to these forms of politicking.

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but Lord Tyrion has requested to speak with you."

Missandei stood up from where she had been sitting behind the tub. "The Queen is busy bathing. Please send the Lord Hand away."

"No." Daenerys stood as well and stepped out of the bath, the hot water dripping off her body. She suppressed the sense of loss from both the heat and Missandei's lovely massage. "Tyrion would've known that I was bathing, I do so after every battle. The fact that he is here requesting an audience regardless means that he has something urgent to say."

Missandei and Dania helped dry and then dress Daenerys in a rather plain dress, then quickly wrapped her in a richly thick and warm cloak of black mink fur and red cloth.

"Send him in."

Dania bowed and left the tent.

Tyrion shuffled in soon after, having the grace to at least look abashed after Daenerys communicated her annoyance with a frosty glare.

"A thousand apologies, My Queen." he bowed.

She waved him off, letting go of her frustration as she did. After all, she could climb right back into the bath afterwards.

"So? Do tell me what the pressing news is."

"My brother has led his armies out of Casterly Rock."

The dwarf asked for a glass a wine before continuing, which Missandei poured for him.

Daenerys grimaced. "It's too early, I've yet to receive word that King Snow has even taken back Riverrun, let alone set foot in the Westerlands."

Tyrion sat down in one of the large wooden chairs strewn about the tent.

"Jamie has always been a clever one when it comes to strategy. He sent five thousand horsemen riding ahead while he leads an army of near twelve thousand down the Gold Road. Yet, he could easily turn north to Oxcross and then past through the Golden Tooth and hit the Northern army in the back, or south to Crakehall to capture the Tyrells. Or perhaps simply march straight down the Gold Road to strike at us." He paused to gulp down some Arbor gold. "With two armies and three pathways he's made it hard for us to predict him."

Daenerys thought on this dilemma.

"He seeks to force our hand, trying to disrupt our plans before we can surround and close our jaws on him. We shall force his instead. I will take both dragons to support our forces at Crakehall, and with this the Kingslayer will have to turn back to defend against us. Send a raven to Riverrun addressed to Jon Snow, and have him make all haste to march on the Rock."

Tyrion looked curiously at her. "You have such faith he will take that massive castle so soon? Riverrun is famed for it's defensive ability."

"I know the King of Winter well. I know he is powerful from our meeting, and I suspect that his power has only grown since. With the Lion drawn south to deal with my dragons, he will take Riverrun quickly. That man needs no advantages."

She gestured Missandei to prepare her riding leathers.

"I will fly tonight. Varys' news is fast but these reports must already be more than a few days old. We must move with great speed to hope to put this new plan in motion."

Tyrion bowed his head. "I will manage your armies here loyally, My Queen."

Daenerys smiled, the expression both sweet and alarming on her devastatingly beautiful face.

"My dear Lord Imp, you will be flying with me. To soar on dragonback once again, and so soon after the last time, many of my men would call you blessed."

Tyrion paled. Daenerys merely turned and sighed a bit. No finishing her bath after all.

 **A/N:** This one was hard to crank out, and not too exciting either. The next few chapters will pick up speed, and after that I'm planning nothing but action til' the end. I'm aiming to finish King Snow anywhere between chapters 12-15, but there's been a plot for a new story brewing in my head for a while now. I may put out just a first chapter or two to get the idea out of my head and into words, before coming back to KS. Thank you so much for the patience and love!


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